Far before it meadows full
Of green pennyroyal sank;
Clover-dotted as with wool
Here and there; and now a bank
Of wild color: and the cool
Dark blue shadows undefined
Of the clouds rolled overhead;
Clouds, from which the summer wind
Blew with rain, and freshly shed
Dew upon the flowerkind.
Where, through mint and gypsy-lily,
Runs the rocky brook away,
Musical among the hilly
Solitudes,—its flashing spray
Sunbeam-dashed or shadow-stilly,—
Buried in thick sassafras,
Memory follows up the hill
Still some cowbell’s mellow brass,
Where the ruined water-mill
Looms, half-hid in cane and grass.
Ah, the old farm! is it set
On the hilltop still? ’mid musk
Of the meads? where, violet,
Deepens all the dreaming dusk,
And the locust trees hang wet?
While the sunset, far and low,
On its westward windows dashes
Primrose or pomegranate glow?
And above, in lilac splashes,
Faint, first stars the heavens sow?
Sleeps it still among its roses,
Yellow roses? while the choir
Of the lonesome insects dozes?
And the white moon, filled with fire,
O’er its mossy roof reposes—
Sleeps it still among its roses?