The mist in the meadow is silver
When day comes over the river,
When day comes ferrying over
The sunrise river is gray.
The leaden waters awaken
All gleaming and aquiver,
And frost-hung rushes sparkle
Like stars in the Milky Way.

The meadow's a little hollow
Like the cup of a hand to hold
The early morning silver
Or later morning gold,
And all in the misty morning
The little rabbits run
And drink in the cup of the meadow
A greeting to the sun.

A chickadee comes to my window
To find his breakfast there,
And I meet the wind from the mountain
And feel the snow in the air,
And the sun goes under a gray veil,
And the trunk of the locust tree
Is black, like a ghost mast drifting
Out of a lonely sea.

I like to live by a meadow
Where I watch a pageant pass,
Clover, daisy and chicory
And long, sweet meadow grass.
The sound of the scythes comes singing
Where strong armed reapers go
And there's silver mist in the morning
And a cup to catch the snow.

The blue of the hills is hidden,
The blue of the sky is lost,
And all the gray green grasses
Are bending under the frost.
Day came over the river
With a word the wild things know,
And the wind comes down like a dancer
Flinging a scarf of snow.