July

July 

The little cares that fretted me,

I lost them yesterday,

Among the fields above the sea,

Among the winds at play,

Among the lowing of the herds,

The rustling of the trees,

Among the singing of the birds,

The humming of the bees.

The foolish fears of what might pass,

I cast them all away,

Among the clover-scented grass,

Among the new-mown hay,

Among the hushing of the corn,

Where drowsy poppies nod,

Where ill thoughts die

and good are born.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning