Burlington Weekly Free Press

A Summer Song,
The bees among the clover
Went humming in and out,
The butterflies on sunny wing
Trooped listlessly about.
The stream a song was singing,
That lulled the dreaming flowers,
And my heart itself was dreaming
To the song of happy hours.
I saw the hills above me,
The breezy hills of Weir.
The ferny farm that nestled
Where the stream grows broad and clear.
The lights and shades went racing
Across the fields of rye,
As the hopes and fears that tremble
When Love himself is nigh.
I call to my mind the fancies,
So idle, yet so dear,
That fluttered round my heart, sweet,
When you yourself drew near.
A sunbeam on the meadows,
A lily on the stream,
Sweet reality--and yet,
The image of a dream.
Time has not changed the fancies
Of that remembered hour
Whose bud of bliss has blossomed
To true and perfect flower.
And fortune grant the way, love,
Our happy footsteps tend,
Be sunny as the past, love,
And sunny to the end.