The grass grows long in the meadow,
It's russet under the sun,
And chicory, like a blue eyed girl,
Rises as if to run
With the wind that brushes the meadow.
A great gold butterfly stops
To pause for a breathless moment
Over the clovertops.

I've heard the brown field sparrow
Pour from his slender throat
A song of praise for the meadow,
Note upon throbbing note.
The clear, thin song of a wild thing
Come from some lonelier place
To serve for a happy Summer
Our gentler meadow grace.

The white fringed daisies linger
Loving the frequent rain,
And one wild tiger lily
Glows like an orange stain
Splashed on the tall, brown grasses
That tremble, shaking the dew,
When little white-tailed rabbits
Make their swift way through.

There is brooding peace in the meadow,
Color and scent and sun,
The hush of a thing that's waiting
After it's work is done.
Like jewels the wild strawberries
Are hidden, ripe and red,
As joy in the heart of a lover
After his body is dead.

The reapers will come to the meadow,
Their scythes are sharp and long,
The little wild rabbits will run from them,
The bob-o-link's song is done.
This is the time of fulfilment,
The waiting things are dumb,
And chicory, like a blue eyed girl,
Watches the reapers come.