In
Summer
Oh, summer has clothed
the earth
In a cloak from the loom
of the sun!
And a mantle, too, of the
skies' soft blue,
And a belt where the
rivers run.
And now for the kiss of
the wind,
And the touch of the
air's soft hands,
With the rest from strife
and the heat of life,
With the freedom of lakes
and lands.
I envy the farmer's boy
Who sings as he follows
the plow;
While the shining green
of the young blades lean
To the breezes that cool
his brow.
He sings to the dewy
morn,
No thought of another's
ear;
But the song he sings is
a chant for kings
And the whole wide world
to hear.
He sings of the joys of
life,
Of the pleasures of work
and rest,
From an o'erfull heart,
without aim or art;
'T is a song of the
merriest.
O ye who toil in the
town,
And ye who moil in the
mart,
Hear the artless song,
and your faith made strong
Shall renew your joy of
heart.
Oh, poor were the worth
of the world
If never a song were
heard,—
If the sting of grief had
no relief,
And never a heart were
stirred.
So, long as the streams
run down,
And as long as the robins
trill,
Let us taunt old Care
with a merry air,
And sing in the face of
ill.
....Paul Laurence Dunbar
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