Green are the corndelds, the wheat is golden;
Fresh are the footprints of radiant June;
Fair is the Earth, with all of its olden
Noontide splendor, its midnight moon.

Night comes slowly, with soft hues blended,
Purple of twilight, and cloud-wrack dun;
Sounds and sights of the day are ended,
Clatter of reaper and glare of sun.

Shocks of grain in the night show dimly,
Dotting the swells of the prairie's breast;
Down where yon headlight goes gliding grimly,
Courses the steed that knows no rest.

Whistle of engine, and jar of thunder,
Startle the silence and then are gone;
Still as before, is the valley vonder;
Softly as ever the stream flows on.

I think, as I sit here, idly dreaming—
The wind on my temples, the dew on my hair,
And the radiant moonbeams o'er me streaming—
Of another summer, as sweet and fair.

Then, as now, stood close together
Clustering sheaves on fields new shorn;
Soft, sweet winds of the summer weather
Stole through the ranks of dark green corn.

I think of a night—the moon shone brightly;
I stood bare-browed at the garden gate—
I think of a hand on my head laid lightly,
And a voice—to me 'twas the voice of fate.


Life's sweet summer has bloomed and faded;
Sheaves have followed the red June rose;
Flecks of the frost in my locks are braided;
Wait I now for the winter snows.

Yet, oh, yet, while life shall linger—
Let its tides swell high, or ebb and fall—
Never shall ruthless, defacing finger
Touch that picture on memory's wall.