The Summer She's a Gypsy

THE summer she’s a gypsy
Who goes about the lanes
In a taffeta skirt all gray with dust
And splashed with winter stains.
She gathers from the droving-paths
And the green headlands
Blue and scarlet and purple flowers,
And holds them in her hands.

Her voice is dry and husky
As greenfinch in the yew,
Or the whiskery lips of barley awns
The wind is blowing through.
She offers you her gaudy blooms,
And thrusts them near,
Cranesbill, poppy, and vetch, and mallow —
“Oh! spare a penny, dear.”

She strides along the hedges
And flings her blooms away,
And she knows where the partridge has her nest,
And where the rabbits play,
And where the watercress grows sweet
And the sleek trout lie.
Summer lives like a gypsy woman
In June and all July.