html website builder

Through mellow beams of the sun's declining rays
And ripe abundance of autumnal days,
The Harvest Matron, in her golden sheaves,
Her tribute from the fruitage now receives.


The languid hours escorted by the morn,
Weary with fragrance of the summer born,
Recline within carnation clouds of rest,
And with a listlessness toward the west
They gaze, through dimness of a veil at Night,
As if entreating shadows for the summer's flight.


Nature, adorned in honor of the feast,
In robes of decorated grandeur dressed,
Has crowned the fields from treasures of her gold,
While she her vineyards with purple robes enfold;
The forests, beautified with glowing hues,
To summer's shadows bid their fond adieus;
The meadows, freighted with the bearded grain,
Yield their burdens to the harvest train;
The birds are flitting to the sunny clime,
And blossoms of the south wind's summer-time;
The streams are hushing voices of their song
To join the silence of the summer's throng;
The roses pale in the glow of autumn's hue;
In dust the lilies lay in solemn rue;
In lowly sweet submission all the flowers
Have turned their faces from the sunshine hours;
Yet through the stilling vale a voice is sounding
Throughout all space where echoes are resounding,
That calls the reapers with thanksgiving to adorn
The prayers for the Harvest newly born.