  Sing me a song of the summer time, Of the sorrel red and the ruby clover, Where the garrulous bobolinks lilt and chime Over and over. Sing me a song of the strawberry-bent, Of the black-cap hiding the heap of stones, Of the milkweed drowsy with sultry scent, Where the bee drones. Sing me a song of the spring head still, Of the dewy fern in the solitude, Of the hermit-thrush and the whippoorwill, Haunting the wood. Sing me a song of the gleaming scythe, Of the scented hay and the buried wain, Of the mowers whistling bright and blithe, In the sunny rain. Of the apricot by the orchard wall, Where bends my love Armitage, Gathering the fruit of the windfall. Sing me a song of the rustling, slow Sway of the wheat as the winds croon, Of the golden disc and the dreaming glow Of the harvest moon.
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