August Days.

August Days.
359.5

In bosky fens the cat-talls swing.
And wild, rad Intlies blow;
And on the hills like signal fires
The scarlet authache glow.
At noon along their wooded banks
The streams deep shadows hold,
And grain fields billow in the breeze
Like seas of molten gold.
In August days like tented fields
The sere, brown meadows lay,
And on their wings the warm winds bear
The scent of new-mown hay.
In serried ranks the plumed corn
Is standing tall and bold,
Guarding with keen, uplifted blades
The pumpkin’s gleaming gold.
Oh purple hills, oh sunny vales
Where mild-eyed cattio graze,
Oh orchards ripening in the sun,
Oh golden August days!
-Elizabeth Clarke Hardy,