AUGUST

Come walk a mile with me —‘ Tis August. Listen!

The meadow-quail is whistling merrily,

And see!— the dew-drops, like great diamonds, glisten

On grass and shrub and bush and bending tree;

And everywhere is peace and joy and plenty,

For everywhere this morning we may go

One seed of Spring has well returned its twenty,

Till Autumn's face with goodness is aglow.

Yes, oaten fields are white and ripe for reaping,

And green things paling in the garden there

Tell us too well that Summer is a-sleeping,

And harvest-time is on us unaware;

The early apples even now are falling,

The tassel'd corn, the fields of ripening rye,

The purpling grape — all, all are sadly calling

That Summer's glory, too, must fade and die.

But hark!— what sound is that!— it seems like thunder,

And yet‘ tis but the wind, within the trees,—

The far-off wind, fresh-filled with nameless wonder,—

A prophesy of Autumn's freshening breeze.