AUGUST.

Read by the wayside, read by the brook,

That this is the passion of the year;

Look at the fields, look at the woods,

Look upon me, and — draw near!

Just as these days are, so is my heart;

Lilies are flaming, berries are ripe;

Alders blow sweet, acorns are full —

And the bobolink's young ones pipe!

Ponder the river, ponder the sky,

Hazy and gray, hazy and blue;

Study the trees wed to the wind —

I promise you I'll be as true!

Yes, true as August — as the birds’ song,

The sweet fern's scent, the weedy, blue shore,

The shine of vines, smilax, and grape —

What can you ask for more?