THE BARLEY FIELDS.

The sunset has faded, there's but a tinge,

Saffron pale, where a star of white

Has tangled itself in the trailing fringe

Of the pearl-gray robe of the summer night.

O the green of the barley fields grows deep,

The breath of the barley fields grows rare;

There is rustle and glimmer, sway and sweep —

The wind is holding high revel there,

Singing the song it has often sung —

Hark to the troubadour glad and bold:

“Sweet is the earth when the summer is young

And the barley fields are green and gold!”