 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
A HARVEST-SKETCH.
Ye green hills, circling in your sunny lapRipe Summer, basking at his length, with crown
Of wheaten spike about his forehead brown,
And head upon a new-cut sheaf, mayhap,
Just laid, and drowsiëd to a noontide nap
By its near poppies, freshly ye look down,
Cooling the eye, whilst noon all else doth wrap
With fiery mantle, gilding field and town—
Perennial verdure clothes ye, as it were,
A garment, whose green skirts the waters kiss,
Keeping it fresh below; whilst, high in air,
The cooler winds, whose task it is, repair
To fan your queenly brows, lest Earth should miss
Your beauty, and her eye lose one great bliss!
| The Poetry of Real Life | |