  It is so quiet here. There lies The heath in noon's warm sunshine gold. A gleam of light, all rosy, flies And hovers round the mounds of old. The herbs are blooming; fragrance fair Now fills the bluish summer air. The beetles rush through bush and trees, In little golden coats of mail; And on the heather-bells the bees Alight on all its branches frail. From out the grass there starts a throng Of larks and fills the air with song. A lonely house, half-crumbled, low: The farmer, in the doorway bent, Stands watching in the sunlight's glow The busy bees in sweet content. And on a stone near by his boy Is carving pipes from reeds with joy. Scarce trembling through the peace of noon The town-clock strikes—from far, it seems. The old man's eye-lids droop right soon, And of his honey crops he dreams.— The sounds that tell our time of stress Have not yet reached this loneliness. FOOTNOTES: |
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