Upon this Summer's Day -- 8 songs for Soprano and Piano

“Whose are the little beds,” I asked,
“Which in the valleys lie?”
Some shook their heads, and others smiled,
And no one made reply.

“Perhaps they did not hear,” I said;
“I will inquire again.
Whose are the beds, the tiny beds
So thick upon the plain?”

“’T is daisy in the shortest;
A little farther on,
Nearest the door to wake the first,
Little leontodon.
  
“’T is iris, sir, and aster,
Anemone and bell,
Batschia in the blanket red,
And chubby daffodil.”

Meanwhile at many cradles
Her busy foot she plied,
Humming the quaintest lullaby
That ever rocked a child.

“Hush! Epigea wakens!
The crocus stirs her lids,
Rhodora’s cheek is crimson, —
She’s dreaming of the woods.”

Then, turning from them, reverent,
“Their bed-time ’t is,” she said;
“The bumble-bees will wake them
When April woods are red.”

Bloom — is Result — to meet a Flower
And casually glance
Would scarcely cause one to suspect
The minor Circumstance

Assisting in the Bright Affair
So intricately done
Then offered as a Butterfly
To the Meridian --

To pack the Bud -- oppose the Worm --
Obtain its right of Dew --
Adjust the Heat -- elude the Wind --
Escape the prowling Bee

Great Nature not to disappoint
Awaiting Her that Day --
To be a Flower, is profound
Responsibility --

I tend my flowers for thee --
Bright Absentee!
My Fuchsia's Coral Seams
Rip -- while the Sower -- dreams --

Geraniums -- tint -- and spot --
Low Daisies -- dot --
My Cactus -- splits her Beard
To show her throat --

Carnations -- tip their spice --
And Bees -- pick up --
A Hyacinth -- I hid --
Puts out a Ruffled Head --
And odors fall
From flasks -- so small --
You marvel how they held --

Globe Roses -- break their satin glake --
Upon my Garden floor --
Yet -- thou -- not there --
I had as lief they bore
No Crimson -- more --

Thy flower -- be gay --
Her Lord -- away!
It ill becometh me --
I'll dwell in Calyx -- Gray --
How modestly -- alway --
Thy Daisy --
Draped for thee!

Perhaps you'd like to buy a flower,
But I could never sell --
If you would like to borrow,
Until the Daffodil

Unties her yellow Bonnet
Beneath the village door,
Until the Bees, from Clover rows
Their Hock, and Sherry, draw,

Why, I will lend until just then,
But not an hour more!

The daisy follows soft the sun,
And when his golden walk is done,
Sits shyly at his feet.
He, waking, finds the flower near.
"Wherefore, marauder, art thou here?
Because, sir, love is sweet!"

We are the flower, Thou the sun!
Forgive us, if as days decline,
We nearer steal to Thee, -
Enamoured of the parting west,
The peace, the flight, the amethyst,
Night's possibility!

God made a little gentian;
It tired to be a rose
And failed, and all the summer laughed.
But just before the snows
There came a purple creature
That ravished all the hill;
And summer hid her forehead,
And mockery was still.
The frosts were her condition;
The Tyrian would not come
Until the North evoked it.
“Creator! shall I bloom?”

Apparently with no surprise
To any happy flower,
The frost beheads it at its play
In accidental power.
The blond assassin passes on,
The sun proceeds unmoved
To measure off another day
For an approving God.

When roses cease to bloom, [dear]1, 
And violets are done,
When bumble-bees in solemn flight
Have passed beyond the sun,

The hand that passed to gather
Upon this summer's day
Will idle lie, in Auburn, --
Then take my flower, pray!