A SONG dp-SirMMER 67 



though the scythe circled with a truer 

 rhythm. 



On the hillside they are cradling 

 rye. The long awned heads sway on 

 the glistening stalks, the breeze ripples 

 this golden sea, and billowing it, a 

 wave of music passes across, as if Pan 

 was blowing softly through his oaten 

 pipe a gentle prelude to the jovial 

 harvest dance. Behind the cradle lies 

 the prostrate rye, screening the sharp 

 stubble, and here and there the pink- 

 purple corn-cockle blends its flowers 

 with the gold. In the neighbouring 

 trees and bushes the birds lurk, wait- 

 ing for the noontime silence, that they 

 may gather up the gleanings. 



Back of the rye field, a round knoll 

 is topped by blooming chestnut trees. 

 All the light and fragrance of the day 

 is meshed by their feathery stamened 

 spikes, and sifting through the mass of 



