  The meadow air is sweet;— The cowslip’s cup of gold Is full of fresh and fragrant dew,— More full than it can hold. The meadow air is sweet;— The blackbird’s mellow note, Like water in a little brook, Flows gurgling from his throat. The meadow air is sweet;— The stream that cheers the lea Will feel the willow’s tender kiss, E’en to the distant sea. The meadow air is sweet;— Hark! from the old elm tree:— Ah! only lovers understand The oriole’s ecstasy. The meadow air is sweet;— The clover, handsome-white, With dainty odors woos the bee, And fills her with delight. The bobolink is there! When he is mute a faery flute Seems echoing in the air. The meadow air is sweet;— The daisy in the grass Looks up to see the clouds, and feel Their shadow as they pass. The meadow air is sweet;— The swallow flashes by, Too merry for a moment’s rest Between the earth and sky. The meadow air is sweet;— The day wanes in the west, And twilight’s soothing shadows lull A weary world to rest. The meadow air is sweet;— Like altar incense rare, It blends the robin’s even-song With the little children’s prayer.
|
|
