IV
Oh days,
When the sun, red through the haze,
Burns bronze to gold!
No breeze wakes,
Sleek cows stand in orchard shade;
And the little sound that ebb tide makes
At the foot of the cliffs is low and sweet
As sighs half-breathed, as lips that meet.
In this ripening time
We wait so still, that we scarce are stirred
By the flight of a startled bird
From its nest, in the furrows made.
Summer's power
Changes our hue from royal green
To golden, hour by hour.
When the sun, red through the haze,
Burns bronze to gold!
No breeze wakes,
Sleek cows stand in orchard shade;
And the little sound that ebb tide makes
At the foot of the cliffs is low and sweet
As sighs half-breathed, as lips that meet.
In this ripening time
We wait so still, that we scarce are stirred
By the flight of a startled bird
From its nest, in the furrows made.
Summer's power
Changes our hue from royal green
To golden, hour by hour.
6
