The farm--a bit of heaven--
Where nature stopped to pray
For blessings to be given
One dreamy summer day. The river running idly;
The cornfields all a-gleam;
The view expanding widely,
And intertwined the stream. The checker-board of landscape;
The haystacks here and there;
The clinging of the wild grape
Around the stone walls bare. The heat like incense rising;
The cattle standing still;
The valley emphasizing
The grandeur of the hill. The hedge-rows isolation
Of all that lies a-field;
The summer's consolation
Of harvests yet to yield. The scent of honeyed clover;
The trilling of a bird;
The shower passing over;
The lowing of the herd. The drowsy black snake sunning;
The rabbit in the brush;
The restless dog a-running,
And over all the hush. A peace that seems unending;
A silence all its own;
The sky and meadow blending;
The woodbine overgrown. The golden rays long-fingered;
The floating meadow mist,
Where broken rainbows lingered
As if the sun had kissed. The poplars silver-crested;
The pines as still as death;
And everything invested
With summer's perfumed breath. The bees a-weight with honey;
The nest protruding bare;
The garden trim and sunny,
And gladness everywhere. The spring-house cool and solemn,
With butter-crocks of gold;
The rough-hewn stone in column,
Where creaking door swings old. The barn a-gape with waiting
The cattle's advent home;
The four-o'clocks dilating
With sheer delirium. The lazy poppies swaying,
A-droop with drowsy weight,
Whose gorgeous colors straying,
The roses emulate. The daisies golden-hearted;
The oriole aflame;
A tender touch imparted
Whene'er the robins came. The blending shades of forest
That robe the trees with green;
The insect-life more modest,
That animates the scene. The trellised bloom that hallows
The sunbeams that convene;
The lacing of the shadows
Where roses hang between. The timid chipmunk listening;
The fowl about the door;
The water cress a-glistening;
The boat with broken oar. The ducks with path unerring;
The sheep with tinkling bell;
The green of grass unsparing;
The moss that lines the well. The spring that trickles slowly,
And drops in shady rill,
The cooling draught, the lowly
Imbibe with happy thrill. The house that shelters loved ones--
A haven of sweet rest--
With welcome door that gladdens
The stranger or the guest. The song, that breaks the silence
Of robin or of thrush,
With captivating cadence
To solemnize the hush. The love that comes inviting
The soul to blissful dreams;
Forgotten thoughts uniting
The scenes that time redeems. The sunbeams all-caressing;
The mirror of the pond;
And over all the blessing,
And still more peace beyond. A peace that reaches heaven,
And incense to the skies,
As if of sins forgiven.
Too soon the summer dies!