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George Meredith - July
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I 
Blue July, bright July, 
Month of storms and gorgeous blue; 
Violet lightnings o`er thy sky, 
Heavy falls of drenching dew; 
Summer crown! o`er glen and glade 
Shrinking hyacinths in their shade; 
I welcome thee with all thy pride, 
I love thee like an Eastern bride. 
Though all the singing days are done 
As in those climes that clasp the sun; 
Though the cuckoo in his throat 
Leaves to the dove his last twin note; 
Come to me with thy lustrous eye, 
Golden-dawning oriently, 
Come with all thy shining blooms, 
Thy rich red rose and rolling glooms. 
Though the cuckoo doth but sing `cuk, cuk,` 
And the dove alone doth coo; 
Though the cushat spins her coo-r-roo, r-r-roo - 
To the cuckoo`s halting `cuk.` 


II 
Sweet July, warm July! 
Month when mosses near the stream, 
Soft green mosses thick and shy, 
Are a rapture and a dream. 
Summer Queen! whose foot the fern 
Fades beneath while chestnuts burn; 
I welcome thee with thy fierce love, 
Gloom below and gleam above. 
Though all the forest trees hang dumb, 
With dense leafiness o`ercome; 
Though the nightingale and thrush, 
Pipe not from the bough or bush; 
Come to me with thy lustrous eye, 
Azure-melting westerly, 
The raptures of thy face unfold, 
And welcome in thy robes of gold! 
Tho` the nightingale broods—`sweet-chuck-sweet` - 
And the ouzel flutes so chill, 
Tho` the throstle gives but one shrilly trill 
To the nightingale`s `sweet-sweet.`
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