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.