PART TWO.
JULY.
Come walk a mile with me—'Tis July weather;
The western sun is burning round and bright,
And not a breeze disturbs yon tiny feather
From a young swallow loosen'd in its flight;
But hark!—in yonder broad and sunlit meadow
The sound of busy mowers fill the air,
While from a tree that casts a pleasing shadow,
Is heard the locust piping shrilly there.
And see, how strong men lift the scented grasses!
And how they pile the wagons with the hay!
How fast the rake, with rolling burden, passes!
How regular the long, round winrows lay!
And see!—the sun—the great round sun is setting,
Like a red rose upon the distant hill,
Till all the earth seems tenderly forgetting
Day's dying light on meadow, lake and rill;
But come!—for darkness soon will gather round us,
And we must pass through yonder woodlands there;
And then white fields of buckwheat will surround us,
And then—then—home we shall together share.
AUGUST
Come walk a mile with me—'Tis August. Listen!
The meadow-quail is whistling merrily,
And see!—the dew-drops, like great diamonds, glisten
On grass and shrub and bush and bending tree;
And everywhere is peace and joy and plenty,
For everywhere this morning we may go
One seed of Spring has well returned its twenty,
Till Autumn's face with goodness is aglow.
Yes, oaten fields are white and ripe for reaping,
And green things paling in the garden there
Tell us too well that Summer is a-sleeping,
And harvest-time is on us unaware;
The early apples even now are falling,
The tassel'd corn, the fields of ripening rye,
The purpling grape—all, all are sadly calling
That Summer's glory, too, must fade and die.
But hark!—what sound is that!—it seems like thunder,
And yet 'tis but the wind, within the trees,—
The far-off wind, fresh-filled with nameless wonder,—
A prophesy of Autumn's freshening breeze.
SEPTEMBER
Come walk a mile with me—'Tis sweet September;
And quietly the clouds are gliding by,
And silent runs the brook that, you remember,
We pass'd last Spring—it now is dumb and dry,
And overhead, the first red leaf is falling,
And, underfoot, the flowers are fading fast,
While in the air I hear a strange, sad calling
That tells me Summer is forever past.
And yet how peaceful seems the face of Heaven,
How calm the earth is—Nature is at rest,
And all the hopes that unto Spring were given,
Folds Autumn now in silence to her breast;
The birds are singing, yet not half so sweetly
As when they sung their song at opening Spring,
And flowers are blooming, yet not so completely
As when the birds were first upon the wing;
And I am singing—but the fading glory
Of Autumn-time subdues my idle song,
For what is Autumn but the sweet sad story
Of leaves that fade and lives that last not long.