FANNIE STEARNS DAVIS THE JOYS OF A SUMMER MORNING The smell of the morning that lurks in the hay, The swish of the scythe And the roundelay Of the meadow-lark as he wings away, Are the joys of a summer morning. The daisy's bloom on the meadow's breast, The wandering bee And his ceaseless quest Of the tempting sweets in the clover's crest, Are the joys of a summer morning. The lowing kine on a distant hill, The rollicking fall Of the near-by rill And the lazy drone of the ancient mill, Are the joys of a summer morning. The feathery clouds in a faultless sky, The new-risen sun With its kindly eye And the woodland breezes floating by, Are the joys of a summer morning. HENRY A. WISE WOOD SOUTH WIND Where have you been, South Wind, this May-day morning, With larks aloft, or skimming with the swallow, Or with blackbirds in a green, sun-glinted thicket? Oh, I heard you like a tyrant in the valley; Your ruffian hosts shook the young, blossoming orchards; You clapped rude hands, hallooing round the chimney, And white your pennons streamed along the river. You have robbed the bee, South Wind, in your adventure, Blustering with gentle flowers; but I forgave you When you stole to me shyly with scent of hawthorn. SIEGFRIED SASSOON TO A WEED You bold thing! thrusting 'neath the very nose Of her fastidious majesty, the rose, Even in the best ordainèd garden bed, Unauthorized, your smiling little head! The gardener, mind! will come in his big boots, And drag you up by your rebellious roots, And cast you forth to shrivel in the sun, Your daring quelled, your little weed's life done. And when the noon cools, and the sun drops low, He'll come again with his big wheelbarrow, And trundle you--I don't know clearly where, But off, outside the dew, the light, the air. Meantime--ah, yes! the air is very blue, And gold the light, and diamond the dew,-- You laugh and courtesy in your worthless way, And you are gay, ah, so exceeding gay! You argue in your manner of a weed, You did not make yourself grow from a seed, You fancy you've a claim to standing-room, You dream yourself a right to breathe and bloom. The sun loves you, you think, just as the rose, He never scorned you for a weed,--he knows! The green-gold flies rest on you and are glad, It's only cross old gardeners find you bad. You know, you weed, I quite agree with you, I am a weed myself, and I laugh too,-- Both, just as long as we can shun his eye, Let's sniff at the old gardener trudging by! GERTRUDE HALL THE PASTURE