PILLOWED and hushed on the silent plain, Wrapped in her mantle of golden grain, Wearied of pleasuring weeks away, Summer is lying asleep to-day,— Where winds come sweet from the wild-rose briers And the smoke of the far-off prairie fires; Yellow her hair as the goldenrod, And brown her cheeks as the prairie sod; Purple her eyes as the mists that dream At the edge of some laggard sun-drowned stream; But over their depths the lashes sweep, For Summer is lying to-day asleep. The north wind kisses her rosy mouth, His rival frowns in the far-off south, And comes caressing her sunburnt cheek, And Summer awakes for one short week,— Awakes and gathers her wealth of grain, Then sleeps and dreams for a year again. |