 | The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder |  |
LATE SUMMER
Tho' summer days are all too fleet,
Not yet the year is touched with cold;
Through the long billows of the wheat
The green is lingering in the gold.
Not yet the year is touched with cold;
Through the long billows of the wheat
The green is lingering in the gold.
The birds that thrilled the April copse,
Ah! some have flown on silent wings;
Yet one sweet music never stops:
The constant vireo sings and sings.
Ah! some have flown on silent wings;
Yet one sweet music never stops:
The constant vireo sings and sings.
| The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder | |