John Drinkwater

Late Summer

Though summer long delayeth
 
Her blue and golden boon,
Yet now at length she stayeth
 
Her wings above the noon;
She sets the waters dreaming
 
To murmurous leafy tones,
The weeded waters gleaming
 
Above the stepping-stones.
 
Where fern and ivied willow
 
Lean o’er the seaward brook,
I read a volume mellow —
 
A poet’s fairy-book;
The seaward brook is narrow,
 
The hazel spans its pride,
And like a painted arrow
 
The king-bird keeps the tide.
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