Susan Hartley Swett


When the scarlet cardinal tells

Her dream to the dragon fly,

And the lazy breeze makes a nest in the trees

And murmurs a lullaby,

It is July.

When the tangled cobweb pulls

The cornflower's cap awry,

And the lilies tall lean over the wall

To bow to the butterfly,

It is July.

When the heat like a mist-veil floats,

And poppies flame in the rye,

And the silver note in the streamlet's throat

Has softened almost to a sigh,

It is July.

When the hours are so still that time

Forgets them, and lets them lie

'Neath petals pink till the night stars wink

At the sunset in the sky,

It is July.