The Summons

Julia_Ward_Howe_2
Julia Ward Howe

I expect you in September
With the glory of the year:
You shall make the Autumn precious,
And the death of Summer dear;
You shall help the days that shorten,
With a lengthening of delight;
You shall whisper long-drawn blisses
Through the gathering screen of night.

I will lead you, dream-enchanted,
Where the fairest grasses grow;
I will hear your murmured music
Where the fresh winds pipe and blow.
On the brown heath, weird-encircled,
Shall our noiseless footsteps fall,—
We, communing with twin counsel,
Each to other all in all.

Leave the titles that men owe thee;
Like the first pair let us meet;
Name the world all over to me,
New-created at thy feet;
Gentle task and duteous learning,
I will hang upon thy breath
With the tender zeal of childhood,
With the constancy of death.

What shall be the gods declare not,—
They who stamp Love’s burning coin
Into spangles of a moment,
Into stars that deathless shine.
Oh! the foolish music lingers;
For the theme is heavenly dear:
I expect you in September,
With the glories of the year.

Julia Ward Howe, 1819-1911

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