The thistledown's flying, though the winds are all still, On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill, The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot; Through streams past the counting it bubbles red hot. The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread, The greensward all wracked is, bents dried up and dead. The fallow fields glitter like water indeed, And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed. Hill-tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun, And the rivers we're eying burn to gold as they run; Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is in the air; Whoever looks round sees Eternity there. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE VOICE OF THE BANJO by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE NINE LITTLE GOBLINS by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY THE HEART KNOWETH ITS OWN BITTERNESS' (2) by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI OLD SAUGATUCK MILL by GRACE JEWETT AUSTIN |