This page has been validated.
SAINT MARGARET
With yonder harebells, pure and pale,
How gentle is the rough down made!
Yet ere October they must fade . . .
—There's another flower, more fair, more frail,
Will first upon God’s knee be laid.
And ah! the wheat has finish’d turning
Her waves of green to waves of gold,
Rich light is swimming round stalk and fold,
The fields with a ruddy joy are burning
—And all the August suns are told.
Already the mellow mists do creep
Upon the pasture, soft and slow.
The air they soothe with dreamy glow,
The sky they lull to tranquil sleep
—And Summer steals away, tiptoe.
27
