  A little brown old homestead, bowered in trees That o’er the Autumn landscape shine afar, Burning with amber and with cinnabar. A yellow hillside washed in airy seas Of azure, where the swallow drops and flees. Midway the slope, clear in the beaming day, A barn by many seasons beaten grey, Big with the gain of prospering husbandries. In billows round the wide red welcoming doors High piles the golden straw; while from within, Where plods the team amid the chaffy din, The loud pulsation of the thresher soars, Persistent as if earth could not let cease This happy proclamation of her peace. |
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