What varied colours o’er the landscape play! The very clouds seem at their ease to lean, And the whole earth to keep glad holiday. The lowliest bush that by the waste is seen, Hath changed its dusky for a golden green In honour of this lovely Summer Morn: The rutted roads did never seem so clean, There is no dust upon the wayside thorn, For every bud looks out as if but newly born. A cottage girl trips by with side-long look, Steadying the little basket on her head; And where a plank bridges the narrow brook She stops, to see her fair form shadowèd. The stream reflects her cloak of russet red; Below she sees the trees and deep-blue sky, The flowers which downward look in that clear bed, The very birds which o’er its brightness fly:-- She parts her loose-blown hair, then wondering passes by. Now other forms move o’er the footpaths brown In twos and threes; for it is Market-day. Beyond those hills stretches a little town, And thitherward the rustics bend their way, Crossing the scene in blue, and red, and grey; Now by green hedge-rows, now by oak-trees old, As they by stile or thatchèd cottage stray. Peep through the rounded hand, and you’ll behold Such gems as Morland drew, in frames of sunny gold. A ladened ass, a maid with wicker maun’, A shepherd lad driving his lambs to sell, Gaudy-dressed girls move in the rosy dawn, Women whose cloaks become the landscape well, Farmers whose thoughts on crops and prizes dwell; An old man with his cow and calf draws near. Anon you hear the Village Carrier’s bell; Then does his grey old tilted cart appear, Moving so slow, you think he never will get there. They come from still green nooks, woods old and hoary, The silent work of many a summer night, Ere those tall trees attained their giant glory, Or their dark tops did tower that cloudy height: They come from spots which the grey hawthorns light, Where stream-kissed willows make a silvery shiver. For years their steps have worn those footpaths bright Which wind along the fields and by the river, That makes a murmuring sound, a “ribble-bibble” ever. A troop of soldiers pass with stately pace,-- Their early music wakes the village street: Through yon white blinds peeps many a lovely face, Smiling--perchance unconsciously how sweet! One does the carpet press with blue-veined feet, Not thinking how her fair neck she exposes, But with white foot timing the drum’s deep beat; And, when again she on her pillow dozes, Dreams how she’ll dance that tune ’mong Summer’s richest roses.