An Invitation.
By James T. Fields.
The warm, wide hills are muffled thick with green,
And fluttering swallows fill the air with song.
Come to our cottage-home. . . Lowly it stands,
Set in a vale of flowers, deep fringed with grass.
The sweet-brier (noiseless herald of the place)
Flies with its odor, meeting all who roam
With welcome footsteps to our small abode.
No splendid cares live here—no barren shows.
The bee makes harbor at our perfumed door,
And hums all day his breezy note of joy.
Come, O my friend! and share our festal month,
And while the west wind walks the leafy woods,
While orchard-blooms are white in all the lanes,
And brooks make music in the deep, cool dells,
Enjoy the golden moments as they pass,
And gain new strength for days that are to come.
And fluttering swallows fill the air with song.
Come to our cottage-home. . . Lowly it stands,
Set in a vale of flowers, deep fringed with grass.
The sweet-brier (noiseless herald of the place)
Flies with its odor, meeting all who roam
With welcome footsteps to our small abode.
No splendid cares live here—no barren shows.
The bee makes harbor at our perfumed door,
And hums all day his breezy note of joy.
Come, O my friend! and share our festal month,
And while the west wind walks the leafy woods,
While orchard-blooms are white in all the lanes,
And brooks make music in the deep, cool dells,
Enjoy the golden moments as they pass,
And gain new strength for days that are to come.
