O the sweetness of the jangle Of the sheep-bells, in the tangle Of the wild witch-hazel bushes and the spreading red-bud trees! — Ah, the silence when it ceases!
But the beauty of the fleeces, And the soft eyes peering at me through the woodbine lattices! And beyond them, and the network Of the dogwood, and the fretwork
Of the interlacing grapevines, and across the meadow land, I can see the color showing Where the winter-wheat is growing, With the corn encamped about it like a plumed protecting band.
While among the many-seeded Tufts of russet weeds, unheeded, Truant ducks go idly twinkling through the yellow stubble-field; Their white feathers like the glosses
Of the shining silver bosses That adorn the tawny luster of an olden golden shield. In long loops from off the hedges, Trailing downward to the edges
Of the wayside grass and clover-leaves, fine cobweb threads are wound; Fairy clues that lead my eager Errant fancy to beleaguer Some concealed, enchanted chamber in the richly covered ground.
Till the sun begins the lighting Of his western fires, that smiting Through the orchard boughs are splintered into spears of ruddy flame; An irradiating splendor
That transfigures all the slender Little leafless twigs and branches with a glory without name! O, I know the year is going! Neither reaping-time nor sowing
Will restore the tender beauty of its blossoms that are dead: Yet I cherish all their sweetness In the ripeness and completeness Of the gold and crimson fruitage that my heart has harvested.
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