AN IDYL[To Miss Florence S. Van Fossen.]
The warm sunshine streameth
O'er valley and hill,
And brightly it gleameth
On river and rill.
The grain waxeth golden
In many a field,
And soon to the reaper
Its fullness will yield.
The ring of the scythe
In the hay-field is heard,
And afar sounds the call
Of the red-winged black bird.
Lambs sport on the hillside,
And down in the mead;
Where the brook murmurs music,
Cows lazily feed.
O'er valley and hill,
And brightly it gleameth
On river and rill.
The grain waxeth golden
In many a field,
And soon to the reaper
Its fullness will yield.
The ring of the scythe
In the hay-field is heard,
And afar sounds the call
Of the red-winged black bird.
Lambs sport on the hillside,
And down in the mead;
Where the brook murmurs music,
Cows lazily feed.
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