The stubble colors through the fallen hay,
And infant grasses pin the moistened clay;
The drooping trees shake off their dust and sigh;
And waking nature, with a gladdened eye,
Beholds the summer lose its ending day,
Across the hills.
NORMAN HUTCHINSON.
_Cornell Magazine._
~Four-o'clocks.~
It was that they loved the children,
The children used to say,
For there was no doubt
That when school was out,
At the same time every day,
Down by the wall,
Where the grass grew tall,
Under the hedge of the hollyhocks,
One by one,
At the touch of the sun,
There opened the four-o'clocks.
It was that they loved the children;--
But the children have gone away,
And somebody goes
When nobody knows,
At the same time every day,
To see by the wall,
Where the grass grows tall,
Under the hedge of the hollyhocks,
How, one by one,
At the touch of the sun,
Still open the four-o'clocks.
LILLIAN B. QUIMBY.
_Wellesley Magazine,_
~The Voice of the West Wind.~
The Wind of the East and the Wind of the North
From the gates of the Sun and the Cold blow forth:
They wander wide and they wander free,
But never a word do they speak to me;
I hear but the voice I know the best,
Of my brother-in-blood the Wind of the West,
And the word that the West Wind whispers me,
Is a message, Heart of my heart, for thee.
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