John Todhunter

A June Day

The very spirit of summer breathes to-day,

Here where I sun me in a dreamy mood,

And laps the sultry leas, and seems to brood

Tenderly o'er those hazed hills far away.

The air is fragrant with the new-mown hay,

And drowsed with hum of myriad flies pursued

By twittering martins. All yon hillside wood

Is drowned in sunshine till its green looks grey.

No scrap of cloud is in the still blue sky,

Vaporous with heat, from which the foreground trees

Stand out--each leaf cut sharp. The whetted scythe

Makes rustic music for me as I lie,

Watching the gambols of the children blythe,

Drinking the season's sweetness to the lees.

What means this mighty chant, wherein its wail

Of some intolerable woe, grown strong

With sense of more intolerable wrong

Swells to a stern victorious march--a gale

Of vengeful wrath? What mean the faces pale,

The fierce resolve, the ecstatic pangs along

Life's fiery ways, the demon thoughts which throng

The gates of awe, when these wild notes assail

The sleeping of our souls ? Hear ye no more

Than the mad foam of revolution's leaven,

Than a roused people's throne-o'erwhelming tread?

Hark! 'tis man's spirit thundering on the shore

Of iron fate; the tramp of Titans dread,

Sworn to dethrone the Gods unjust from Heaven.