Apple and peach trees fruited deep, 

 Fair as a garden of the Lord*** 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 



AUGUST 



The lark leaves the ling, and the silver-bright dawn-dew 



is shaking, 



On earth, as to heaven it rises, from lightest and blith- 

 est of wing ; 



By the edge of the cliff the August-morn waves soft are 

 breaking, 



The lark leaves the ling. 



How sweet is the anthem, O bird, thou of the sun-dawn 



dost bring, 



O'er leagues dyed with purple of ling thy gladdest of 

 songs thou art making, 



Each cadence and burden in every heath-bell doth re- 

 echo and ring. 



The morning is thine and the noon, all the hours till the 



light is forsaking 

 Leagues lately all golden with whin whose soft honey 



odour did cling 



To these slopes by the sea, where amid the fair light of 

 the morning now awaking, 



The lark leaves the ling. 



(AUGUST MORN.) 



CUMMER'S glorious pageant is quickly passing away from 

 ^r view, and to follow in its train is Autumn's gay proces- 

 sion. Woods and hedgerows are fast visibly preparing to don 

 their glorious robes ; many of the berries, especially those of 

 the hawthorn and roses, are swelling to ripeness, berries that 

 in winter are the " coral jewellery of the hedge." Summer at 

 present is by no means lessened in beauty : in the fields the 

 bees still hum as merrily as ever over the white of blossoming 



