AUGUST.
How fair a sight, that vest of gold,
Those wreaths that August's brow enfold!
Oh, 'tis a goodly sight, and fair,
To see the fields their produce bear.
Waved by the breeze's lingering wing,
So think, they seem to laugh and sing,
And call the heart to feel delight,
Rejoicing in the bounteous sight;
And call the reaper's skilful hand
To cull the riches of the land!
'Tis fair to see the farmer build,
Now here, now there, throughout the field,
With measuring eye correct, that leaves
Fit space between the numbered sheaves.