Alice Meynell

A Comparison in a Seaside Field

'Tis royal and authentic June
    Over this poor soil blossoming;
Here lies, beneath an upright noon,
    Thin nation for so wild a king.

Far off, the noble Summer rules,
    Violent in the ardent rose,
His sun alight in mirroring pools,
    Braggart on Alps of vanquished snows;

Away, aloft, true to his hour,
    Announced, his colour, his fire, his jest.
But here, in negligible flower,
    Summer is not proclaimed:—confessed.

A woman I marked; for her no state,
    Small joy, no song. She had her boon,
Her only youth, true to its date,
    Faintly perceptible, her June.