MIDSIIMMER, veiled in golden mist,

And crowned with golden leaves,

Comes tripping with her sandaled feet

Among the gathered sheaves.

Bright clouds and winds and sunbeams play

Around this bright midsummer day.

Along the upper pearl-rift shore

The clouds like purple banners lie;

Austere and grand, the noonday sun

Is sloping westward through the sky;

Now, fainting on his couch of rest,

A thousand arrows pierce his breast.

Upon the hills the cattle graze,

Knee-deep in clover white as snow;

The very silence seems to be

Full of their distant, lazy low,

And round the far-off valley lies

The perfect rest of Paradise.

Nature's sweet harmony without

Creates a harmony within;

Why should we wage perpetual strife

With want, and poverty, and sin?

Sweeter it is to lie at rest,

Dear Mother Earth, on thy soft breast.

And this is rest—a perfect calm.

I watch the blue mists float away;

The stillness seems like holiness;

The earth is better for this day.

Oh, if all strife, all care, would cease

Forever in this perfect peace!