  Season of the languorous gold, Season of the hazy drouth; When the nights are nipt and cold, And the birds go calling south, Over lakes and still lagoons, Through the long-tranced afternoons. Out in frosty, crimsoning woods, When the afternoons are sunny, In sweet open solitudes Where the wild bee stores her honey, And the bright wood-carpenter Hammers at some dead old fir. There the world forgets its woe, And the heart releases trouble, Where the drumming partridge go, Trailing underneath the stubble; While the golden afternoon Slopes and slants and sinks too soon. Where broad rivers, brimmed with rains, Wind in sinuous blue for miles Through low, grassy meadow plains, Where the warm sun sifts and smiles, And great tented elms throw Shadows in cool depths below;— Spirit in blue hazes clad, Maiden of the sunny mouth, When the airs grow still and sad, And the birds are calling south, And the far-off hills are blue, Here I love to dream with you; Dream the olden days of yore, While the wind some haunted tune Flutes in gold-green leafy core Of the long-tranced afternoon; And my heart grows still and vast With long memories of the past. |
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