The wood’s green heart is a nest of dreams, The lush grass thickens and springs and sways, The rathe wheat rustles, the landscape gleams— Midsummer days! Midsummer days! In the stilly fields, in the stilly ways, All secret shadows and mystic lights, Late lovers murmur and linger and gaze— Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights! There’s a music of bells from the trampling teams, Wild skylarks hover, the gorses blaze, The rich, ripe rose as with incense steams— Midsummer days! Midsummer days! A soul from the honeysuckle strays, And the nightingale as from prophet heights Sings to the Earth of her million Mays— Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights! _Envoy_ And it’s O, for my dear and the charm that stays— Midsummer days! Midsummer days! It’s O, for my Love and the dark that plights— Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights! BALLADE OF DEAD ACTORS I. M. Edward John Henley (1861–1898) WHERE are the passions they essayed, And where the tears they made to flow? Where the wild humours they portrayed For laughing worlds to see and know? Othello’s wrath and Juliet’s woe? Sir Peter’s whims and Timon’s gall? And Millamant and Romeo? Into the night go one and all. Where are the braveries, fresh or frayed? The plumes, the armours—friend and foe? The cloth of gold, the rare brocade, The mantles glittering to and fro? The pomp, the pride, the royal show? The cries of war and festival? The youth, the grace, the charm, the glow? Into the night go one and all. The curtain falls, the play is played: The Beggar packs beside the Beau; The Monarch troops, and troops the Maid; The Thunder huddles with the Snow. Where are the revellers high and low? The clashing swords? The lover’s call? The dancers gleaming row on row? Into the night go one and all. _Envoy_ Prince, in one common overthrow The Hero tumbles with the Thrall: As dust that drives, as straws that blow, Into the night go one and all. BALLADE MADE IN THE HOT WEATHER _To_ C. M. FOUNTAINS that frisk and sprinkle The moss they overspill; Pools that the breezes crinkle; The wheel beside the mill, With its wet, weedy frill; Wind-shadows in the wheat; A water-cart in the street; The fringe of foam that girds An islet’s ferneries; A green sky’s minor thirds— To live, I think of these! Of ice and glass the tinkle, Pellucid, silver-shrill; Peaches without a wrinkle; Cherries and snow at will, From china bowls that fill The senses with a sweet Incuriousness of heat; A melon’s dripping sherds; Cream-clotted strawberries; Dusk dairies set with curds— To live, I think of these!