The Deserted Pasture

I love the stony pasture

That no one else will have.

The old gray rocks so friendly seem,

So durable and brave.

In tranquil contemplation

It watches through the year.

Seeing the frosty stars arise,

The slender moons appear.

Its music is the rain-wind,

Its choristers the birds,

And there are secrets in its heart

Too wonderful for words.

It keeps the bright-eyed creatures

That play about its walls,

Though long ago its milking herds

Were banished from their stalls.

Only the children come there,

For buttercups in May,

Or nuts in autumn, where it lies

Dreaming the hours away.

Long since its strength was given

To making good increase,

And now its soul is turned again

To beauty and to peace.

There in the early springtime

The violets are blue,

And adder-tongues in coats of gold

Are garmented anew.

There bayberry and aster

Are crowded on its floors,

When marching summer halts to praise

The Lord of Out-of-doors.

And there October passes

In gorgeous livery,—

In purple ash, and crimson oak,

And golden tulip tree.

And when the winds of winter

Their bugle blasts begin,

The snowy hosts of heaven arrive

And pitch their tents therein.