  NOW’S the time o’ year when the deep skies seem (Look where you will) like the dream of a dream; Toss of gold, floss of gold, weed-tip and tree, And purple like the twilight for the lone late bee. Now’s the time o’ year when the cider-stills run Amber—luscious amber—in the round red sun; And the bloom on the grape’s like the bloom on the cheeks Of a maid at the tryst when a low voice speaks. Now’s the time o’ year when the hill-crests call, And the clear rill-music has a tinkling fall; Piper of the South Wind, play up, play! Your hand in mine, love, let us away! Clinton Scollard. |
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