The Gentle Days

Now comes the heat of summer on soft feet,
Slipping through the trees
On little shafts of sunlight to the beat
Of insect symphonies.
Soft winds stroll too
Languidly through
The gentle days
The days when earth's serenities
Walk golden ways;
When clouds float in a tranquil mist;
And morning-glories, prejudiced
Against the heat, curl up, withdrawn
To wait a new and cooler dawn.
These days were made with golden hours
For wise surcease
From hectic Time; their quiet empowers
The soul with peace.

MARY B. WARD.