I feel the season's dreamy call...

By Theodore Harding Rand

I feel the season's dreamy call

In hawkbit, asters,‘ pyeweed tall,—

Glory of August ere September

Trumpet the note of the hasting fall.

A flash in crystal waters cold —

O dream in silver, red, and gold —

The speckled trout above the gravel

Lies by the rock where the stream is rolled!

Grasshoppers chirp and crickets chir,

The rich-tagged alders nod and pur,

The kine bells drowse the distant pasture,—

All nature waits for the coming stir.