In August
Cora A. Matson Dolson
For me a basket and a book
Where cooling hemlocks grow;
And, in the deep of wooded nooks,
The spikes of cardinal glow.
A book to bring but not to read—
Enough to know it near,
To turn a leaf I do not need,
The song is with me here.
A bird-note comes adown the wood,
It seems to stillness wed;
A tap, then gleam of scarlet hood
High in the tree o'erhead.
The Indian-pipe is waxen stemmed;
The squirrels near me play;
While on this bank by mosses gemmed
I dream the hours away.