I hear the sound of the reapers,
All in the golden grain,
And voices of strong young binders,
Singing a sweet refrain.
The winds are asleep on the hilltops,
And the sun smiles down in the vale,
Till the rose faints under his glances,
And her cheek grows wan and pale.
The meadows are green as the ocean;
And the winds, when they wake from rest,
Ripple and billow the grasses,
Like waves on the ocean's breast.
The vine grows over my window,
Where the humming bird comes each day,
And the robin and thrush in the willow,
Are singing their lives away.
Oh, beautiful, languid Summer!
You are so fleet, so fleet.
Oh, youth, and joy, and gladness,
You are so sweet—so sweet!
My life is a wonderful poem,
Complete in measure and rhyme,
And the sweetest of all the stanzas
Is written this summer time.
But the golden harvest is going—
The summer will fade and pass.
The thrush and the robin will vanish,
And the snow fall over the grass.
The vine at my window will perish.
And the beautiful poem of life
Will change to a measure of sorrow,
And be marred and broken by strife.
Then revel in youth, and summer;
Oh, heart, be glad and gay,
For sorrow, and blight, and winter,
Are coming to us one day.
1872