The beautiful feet of the summer,
So late by the woodland and rill,
With slow, lingering movement are going
Down the brown, southern slopes of the hills;
Her dreamy-eyed sister, the autumn,
Looks down at the summer-clad trees,
And, 'neath her cool breathing, a garment
Of brown is put on by the leaves.
A soft haze comes up from the valleys,
And floats between landscape and sky,
And the sun, looking down through the lacework
Of mist, has a tenderer eye.
The azure of heaven grows deeper,
More vivid the sunset's last glow,
And the clouds at the gates of the morning
Have mingled some gray with their snow.
O'er the fields and the slopes of the meadows,
The swift-footed sunshine and shade,
In frolic are chasing each other,
Far away to the dim forest glade.
There's quieter light on the waters,
A many-hued robe on the trees,
And the anthem the wild winds are playing,
Runs down on the low minor keys.
It is beautiful, all, in its going,
This wonderful, sweet summer time;
The leaflets glide down through the sunshine,
As poets thoughts glide into rhyme.
Sweet Summer looks over her shoulder,
And whispers once more her farewells--
I wonder if Peace will come with her
When her feet are again on the hills.
