The Poetry of Late Summer
One has the leisure of July
for perceiving all the differences of the green of leaves.
It is no longer a difference in degrees of maturity,
for all the trees have darkened to their final tone,
and stand in their differences of character and not of mere date.
Almost all the green is grave, not sad and not dull.
It has a darkened and a daily color,
in majestic but not obvious harmony with dark grey skies,
and might look, to inconstant eyes,
as prosaic after spring as eleven o'clock looks after the dawn.
Gravity is the world-not solemnity as towards evening,
nor menace as at night.
The daylight trees of July
are signs of common beauty, common freshness,
and a mystery familiar and abiding as night and day.
In childhood we all have a more exalted sense of
dawn and summer sunrise
than we ever fully retain or quite recover;
and also a far higher sensibility
for April and April evenings-a heartache for them,
which in riper years is gradually and irretrievably consoled.
The poetry of mere day and of late summer
becomes perceptive to mature eyes
that have long ceased to be sated,
have taken leave of weariness,
and cannot now find anything in nature too familiar;
eyes which have, indeed,
lost sight of the further awe of midsummer day break,
and no longer see so much of the past in April twilight
as they saw when they had no past;
but which look freshly at the dailiness of green summer,
of early afternoon, of every sky of any form that comes to pass,
and of the darkened elms.