The Pond

    While watercress is flowering on the pond
    And bulrushes are sleeping by the shore,
    A meditative breath of evening comes,
    Descending down from where the angels soar.

    The beech are hanging full beneath the moon;
    They move their limbs like harbingers of peace
    And whisper fondly, from their emerald leaves,
    Long chantries that their supple boughs release.

    As ever-rolling silent hours creep by,
    In search to find the beauty of the dawn,
    Regardless of the certitude of day,
    The nightingale’s sweet voice will tarry on.

    The purple skies now sift another shade,
    As gleaming dew-drops scatter through the dell,
    while quietly the sun curls morning up,
    Encapsulated in a golden shell.

    When black-winged swallows fly past clover fields
    And air-swept lindens lift to touch their wings
    In sweeping gestures, then ring foxglove bells,
    And all of summer rises up and sings.