Iv

Oh days, When the sun, red through the haze, Burns bronze to gold! No breeze wakes, Sleek cows stand in orchard shade; And the little sound that ebb tide makes At the foot of the cliffs is low and sweet As sighs half-breathed, as lips that meet. In this ripening time We wait so still, that we scarce are stirred By the flight of a startled bird From its nest, in the furrows made. Summer’s power Changes our hue from royal green To golden, hour by hour.