Arthur Stringer (1874–1950)

ALL over-thumbed, dog-eared, and stained with grass,

All bleached with sun and time, and eloquent

Of afternoons in golden-houred romance,

You turn them o’er, those comrade books of mine,

And idly ask me what I think of Keats.

But let me likewise question you round whom

The clangour of the Market sweeps and clings;

In Summer toward the murmurous close of June

Have you e’er walked some dusty meadow path

That faced the sun and quivered in the heat,

And as you brushed through grass and daisy drift,

Found glowing on some sunburnt little knoll

One deep, red, over-ripe wild strawberry?—

The sweetest fruit beneath Canadian skies,

And in that sun-bleached field the only touch

Of lustrous colour to redeem the Spring—

The flame-red passion of life’s opulence

Grown over-sweet and soon ordained to death!

And have you ever caught up in your hand

That swollen globe of soft deliciousness?

You notice first the colour, richly red;

And then the odour, strangely sweet and sharp,

And last of all, you crush its ruddy core

Against your lips, till colour, taste, and scent

Might make your stained mouth stop the murmur; ‘This

The very heart of Summer that I crush!’

So poignant through its lusciousness it seems!

Then what ’s the need, Old Friend, of foolish words:

I’ve shown you now just what I think of Keats.