BALLADE MADE IN THE HOT WEATHER

MOUNTAINS that frisk and sprinkle The moss they overspill; Grass that the breezes crinkle; The wheel beside the mill, With its wet, weedy frill; Wind-shadows in the wheat; A water-cart in the street; The fringe of foam that girds An islet’s ferneries; A green sky’s minor thirds— To live, I think of these! Of ice and glass the tinkle, Pellucid, silver-shrill; Peaches without a wrinkle; Cherries and snow, at will From china bowls that fill The senses with a sweet Incuriousness of heat; A melon’s dripping sherds; Cream-clotted strawberries; Dusk dairies set with curds— To live, I think of these! Vale-lily and periwinkle; Wet stone-crop on the sill; The look of leaves a-twinkle With windlets clear and still; The feel of a forest rill That wimples fresh and fleet About one’s naked feet; The muzzles of drinking herds; Lush flags and bulrushes; The chirp of rain-bound birds— To live, I think of these!

Dark aisles, new packs of cards, Mermaidens’ tails, cool swards, Dawn dews and starlit seas, White marbles, whiter words— To live, I think of these! W. E. Henley.