Thomas Miller, Summer Morning: A poem
“ SUMMER MORNING. Morning again breaks through the mines of Heaven, And shakes her jewelled kirtle on the sky, Heavy with rosy gold. Aside are driven The vassal clouds, which bow as she draws nigh, And catch her scattered gems of orient dye, The pearlèd-ruby which her pathway strews; Argent and amber, now thrown useless by. The uncoloured clouds wear what she doth refuse, For only once does Morn her sun-dyed garments use. ”
Thomas Miller, Summer Morning: A poem
“ Year after year, and o’er those footpaths strayed, When summoned by the sounding Sabbath bell,— For in those walls they deemed that God did dwell. And still they sleep within that bell’s deep sound. Yon Spire doth here of no distinction tell; O’er rich and poor, marble, and earthly mound, The Monument of all,—it marks one common ground. See yonder smoke, before it curls to Heaven Mingles its blue amid the elm-trees tall; Shrinking like one who fears to be forgiven, So on the earth again doth prostrate fall, And ’mid the bending green each sin recall. ”
Thomas Miller, Summer Morning: A poem
“ With napless hat in hand he after them doth spring. In the far sky the distant landscape melts, Like pilèd clouds tinged with a darker hue; Even the wood which yon high upland belts Looks like a range of clouds, of deeper blue. ”
