It was as if the summer's late
Atoning for it's sadness
Had borrowed every season's charm
To end its days in gladness.
Rivers of gold-mist flowing down
From far celestial fountains,--
The great sun flaming through the rifts
Beyond the wall of mountains.
We paused at last where home-bound cows
Brought down the pasture's treasure,
And in the barn the rhythmic flails
Beat out a harvest measure.
We heard the night-hawk's sullen plunge,
The crow his tree-mates calling
The shadows lengthening down the slopes
About our feet were falling.
And through them smote the level sun
In broken lines of splendor,
Touched the gray rocks and made the green
Of the shorn grass more tender.
The maples bending o'er the gate,
Their arch of leaves just tinted
With yellow warmth, the golden glow
Of coming autumn hinted.
Keen white between the farm-house showed,
And smiled on porch and trellis,
The fair democracy of flowers
That equals cot and palace.
And weaving garlands for her dog,
'Twixt chidings and caresses,
A human flower of childhood shook
The sunshine from her tresses.
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