Below the hill's an ash; below
The ash, white elder-flow'rs do blow:
Below the elder is a bed
O' robinhoods a' blushin' red;
And there, wi' nunch es all a-spread,
The hay-meakers, wi' each a cup
O' drink, do smile to zee hold up
The rain, an' sky a-clearin'.
W. Barnes.
By fragrant gales in frolic play
The floating corn's green waves are fann'd,
And all above, broad summer day!
And all below, bright summer land.
Owen Meredith.
The sweet west wind is flying
Over the purple sea,
And the amber daylight dying
On roadway, hill, and tree;
The cattle bells are ringing
Among the slanting downs,
And children's voices flinging
Glad echoes through the towns:
"Oh, summer day! so soon away!"
The happy-hearted sigh and say:
"Sweet is thy light, and sad thy flight,
And sad the words—good-night, good-night."
The wan white clouds are trailing
Low o'er the level plain,
And the wind brings with its wailing
The chill of the coming rain;
Fringed by the faded heather,
Wide pools of water lie,
And birds and leaves together
Whirl through the evening sky.
"Haste thee away, oh, winter day!"
The weary-hearted weep and say:
"Sad is thy light, and slow thy flight,
And sweet the words—good-night, good-night."