Summer’s Song Poem by Bessie Rayner Parkes

WHO calleth? I am coming, I am coming,
O'er the hills with a swift step, from dawn till gloaming,
Pouring from my broadlipp'd horn
Increase over grass and corn.
As I haste I hear discourses,
From the murmurous watercourses,
Of the purple-pinion'd rover,
While from fragrant fields of clover
Comes a drowsy dreamy hum;
They say, 'Doth not Summer come?'
Yes, I'm coming, oh! I'm coming.

Who calleth? Bird in greenwood, deer in forest,
Meadow blossoms, and those small things (much the dearest)
Who blossom in the town,
And in every alley known
To venturous explorers among men--
All say, 'Come, sweet Summer, quicken
Thy slow steps, for, oh! we sicken
Of the darkness and the snow;
We fain would bud and blow,
And we fain would build our nest
Where the green boughs shelter best,

And we fain would go and play
In the meadows yond' all day.
Oh sweet Summer, sweetest Summer, come again!'
Yes, I'm coming, oh! I'm coming.

Who calleth? All the great sea-waves are weary
Of wrestling with the roaring wind in fury,
And would like to go to sleep
On the surface of the deep,
Dreaming of the mermaids down below.
All the little streams awake;
Their silver threads I take,
With the filmy morning mist
By early sunbeams kiss'd,
And wreathe them in a veil about my brow.
So I walk upon the land,
Scattering from my hand
Richest fruits and flowers,
While the winged hours
Paint the sky with gold,
And loveliness untold
Of blue and rose and gray,
Invoking every day
Fresh spells of colour and fresh majesty of form.
Oh! little child and sire,
Seated by your waning fire,
And storm-beat wanderer on the great earth roaming,
Fold your glad hands in prayer because I'm coming.