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Sir Summer.
By W. M. MacKeracher
When conquering Summer stalks the street,
His eyes are eyes of fire,
The pavement burns beneath his feet,
Men droop before his ire;
But yonder, out upon the land,
His manners are not these:
He is a courtier mild and bland
Beneath the maple trees.
He throws his buckler on the grass,
Unclasps his sheathèd blade;
He doffs his helmet and cuirass,
And lounges in the shade;
His pennon, fastened to a bough,
Is fluttering in the breeze:
He is at home and happy now
Beneath the maple trees.
No furious rage disturbs his breast,
No fever heats his brain;
Right cheerily he takes his rest,
And views his glad domain;
His lady seated by his side,
His children on his knees,
His heart expands with joy and pride
Beneath the maple trees.
He hears the happy farmer folk
Who toss the fragrant hay;
Blessings upon him they invoke,
And beg of him to stay.
The music of the feathered choirs,
The murmur of the bees,
Are sounds of which he never tires
Beneath the maple trees.
He hums a sweet, melodious tune,
His hand a garland weaves,
He talks the while he feasts at noon,
His laughter shakes the leaves.
He tells of conquests in the south,
Of triumphs overseas,
Of realms redeemed and deeds of drouth,
Beneath the maple trees.
He shouts and holds his jolly sides,
And strikes his lusty thigh,
To think of how Sir Winter hides
His face when he is nigh,
Or how with city exquisites
His swagger disagrees:
Thus glad Sir Summer gaily sits
Beneath the maple trees.
I know where I can find his bower
Upon a wooded hill,
Where I can pluck his favorite flower,
And bathe within his rill;
And thither I will take my flight,
And loiter at my ease,
And pay my homage to the Knight
Beneath the maple trees.
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