The sunset has faded, there's but a tinge,
Saffron pale, where a star of white
Has tangled itself in the trailing fringe
Of the pearl-gray robe of the summer night.
O the green of the barley fields grows deep,
The breath of the barley fields grows rare;
There is rustle and glimmer, sway and sweep —
The wind is holding high revel there,
Singing the song it has often sung —
Hark to the troubadour glad and bold:
“Sweet is the earth when the summer is young
And the barley fields are green and gold!”