Harvest Time

Pillowed and hushed on the silent plain, Wrapped in her mantle of golden grain,

Wearied of pleasuring weeks away, Summer is lying asleep to-day,--

Where winds come sweet from the wild-rose briers And the smoke of the far-off prairie fires;

Yellow her hair as the goldenrod, And brown her cheeks as the prairie sod;

Purple her eyes as the mists that dream At the edge of some laggard sun-drowned stream;

But over their depths the lashes sweep, For Summer is lying to-day asleep.

The north wind kisses her rosy mouth, His rival frowns in the far-off south,

And comes caressing her sunburnt cheek, And Summer awakes for one short week,--

Awakes and gathers her wealth of grain, Then sleeps and dreams for a year again.