Summer Flower

 

I was born on this day,

Quarter century old,

Time's scythe takes hold

Around years, months on the 5th May,

And the hot summer pay

For the cake gold,

Lies which in barn to be sold,

While sandy swirls make hay.

 

Thank thee O summer,

Only thou show passion for the child;

Arriving like the flower late,

Becomes who then a dreamer,—

Summer flower; without singlest trace wild,

Oh! The flower with unflowery fate!