 | Poems |  |
31
AMONG THE HILLS.
HUELGOAT, BRITTANY.
The bloom is fading from the heather,
The gorse has scattered half his gold,
And, presaging a ruder weather,
September's winds blow keen and cold.
The gorse has scattered half his gold,
And, presaging a ruder weather,
September's winds blow keen and cold.
They've touched Bellaises' wood of story,
They've scorched the fern above the rill;
The ashes of the summer's glory
Smoulder and die on yonder hill.
They've scorched the fern above the rill;
The ashes of the summer's glory
Smoulder and die on yonder hill.
32
The year's decaying fires to-morrow
Warm them to transient life once more,
But cannot stay the night of sorrow,
That casts its shadows o'er the moor.
Warm them to transient life once more,
But cannot stay the night of sorrow,
That casts its shadows o'er the moor.
The vast gray stones that bridge the river,
And choke the valleys all around,
Are vaster and more gray than ever,
In concord with the saddened ground.
And choke the valleys all around,
Are vaster and more gray than ever,
In concord with the saddened ground.
In kindlier climes the summer flying
Leaves half her smiles upon the plains;
The red fruit hides the leaf that's dying,
And yellow waggons crown the lanes.
Leaves half her smiles upon the plains;
The red fruit hides the leaf that's dying,
And yellow waggons crown the lanes.
But they are gone—our laughing hours,
We have nor sheaves nor orchards here;
And brief the sun and few the flowers,
That cheer our mountains' sullen year.
We have nor sheaves nor orchards here;
And brief the sun and few the flowers,
That cheer our mountains' sullen year.
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