Read by the wayside, read by the brook,
That this is the passion of the year;
Look at the fields, look at the woods,
Look upon me, and—draw near!
Just as these days are, so is my heart;
Lilies are flaming, berries are ripe;
Alders blow sweet, acorns are full—
And the bobolink's young ones pipe!
Ponder the river, ponder the sky,
Hazy and gray, hazy and blue;
Study the trees wed to the wind—
I promise you I'll be as true!
Yes, true as August—as the birds' song,
The sweet fern's scent, the weedy, blue shore,
The shine of vines, smilax, and grape—
What can you ask for more?