Summer
The Springtime has gone with its verdure and song,
The fragrance of bud and the fullness of flower,
And now o'er the grainfields the harvesters throng
To gather in triumph the glad Summer's dower.
The orchards are bending with fruitage today
And vineyards are purple with grapes juicy sweet;
Our hearts are exultant, our voices are gay,
As Summer flings down all her wealth at our feet.
O Summer, bright Summer, the queen of the year,