76
BYRON, AGED SEVEN.
He knows where the field-mouse burrows,
Where glide the speckled trout,
And when the first blue violets,
From the meadow grass peep out.
Where glide the speckled trout,
And when the first blue violets,
From the meadow grass peep out.
He goes out in his shining ginghams,
And comes in stained with dirt,
For marvellous treasures are hid,
For him in the furrowed rows,
Of the fields where the stately corn,
Throws out its tassels, and drinks,
The dew of the summer morns.
And comes in stained with dirt,
For marvellous treasures are hid,
For him in the furrowed rows,
Of the fields where the stately corn,
Throws out its tassels, and drinks,
The dew of the summer morns.
And when the royal harvesting,
Of the autumn time is here,
From the orchard's dancing shadows,
His merry laugh rings clear.
Down rains the golden fruitage,
In the sunshine's quivering flash,
From leafy boughs, or piled full high,
In heaps among the grass.
Of the autumn time is here,
From the orchard's dancing shadows,
His merry laugh rings clear.
Down rains the golden fruitage,
In the sunshine's quivering flash,
From leafy boughs, or piled full high,
In heaps among the grass.
When the patient oxen toil,
Up the hill with tiresome freight,
Of golden ears, he swings his cap,
And cheers, perched on his risky seat,
When the yellow pumpkins ripen,
He claims the biggest as his prize,
Tugging up the rough-hewn doorsteps,
"This is mine for saucer-pies."
Up the hill with tiresome freight,
Of golden ears, he swings his cap,
And cheers, perched on his risky seat,
When the yellow pumpkins ripen,
He claims the biggest as his prize,
Tugging up the rough-hewn doorsteps,
"This is mine for saucer-pies."
