The swelling leaves of willows rank 

 That swept the stream with tresses fine, 

 Showed in the vale a pale green bank ; 



While in the glowing morning sun, 

 A million new born leaflets shone, 

 As Nature's lovely work begun. 



In mazy tints the hill's broad breast 

 Majestic lay beyond the pines, 

 In wavy lines from east to west. 



The corn rows showed a line of green, 

 That lifted slowly toward the sky, 

 And all attired in spring-time's sheen. 



Like summer waves upon the beach, 

 Rolled in long swells the waving wheat, 

 Far as the visive orb could reach. 



A morning glory's trailing vine 

 Was pushing green arms everywhere, 

 And mixing with the wild woodbine. 



The clear, sweet piping of the quail, 

 Borne on the freshened morning breeze, 

 Came from far down the velvet swale. 



The hill's tall crest whereon I stood, 

 Seemed to be dipt in a green sea 

 Of flowing vales, 'mid isles of wood. 



The meadows fair sloped gently down 

 Towards the river's rippling marge, 

 Dressed in a flowing emerald gown. 



A million diamonds of dew 



Shone full of ever shimmering light, 



And sparkled bright with every hue. 



The soft green velvet of the sod, 

 That rippled rich beneath the sun, 

 Was grown an ample couch for God , 



Where Deity alone might lie 

 And lave His soul in limpid joy, 

 Beneath His blue and cloudless sky 



And dream, and think, if any place 

 In this vast universe of His, 

 Could show so fair, so sweet a face. 



L. F. HARMAN. 



210 



