1 8 ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 



A SUMMER LONGING. 



I MUST away to wooded hills and vales, 

 Where broad, slow streams flow cool and silently, 

 And idle barges flap their listless sails. 

 For me the summer sunset glows and pales, 

 And green fields wait for me. 



I long for shadowy forests, where the birds 



Twitter and chirp at noon from every tree; 

 I long for blossomed leaves and lowing herds ; 

 And Nature's voices say in mystic woods, 

 "The green fields wait for thee." 



I dream of uplands, where the primrose shines 



And waves her yellow lamps above the lea; 

 Of tangled copses, swung with trailing vines ; 

 Of open vistas, skirted with tall pines, 



Where green fields wait for me. 



I think of long, sweet afternoons, when I 



May lie and listen to the distant sea, 

 Or hear the breezes in the reeds that sigh, 

 Or insect voices chirping shrill and dry, 



In fields that wait for me. 



These dreams of summer come to bid me find 

 The forest's shade, the wild bird's melody, 

 While summer's rosy wreaths for me are twined, 

 While summer's fragrance lingers on the wind, 



And green fields wait for me. 



GEORGE ARNOLD. 



OUR WILLOWS. 



IT is when the east wind blows, But the moment the storm-wind blows, 



And his cohorts gather and ride, And the storm-clouds gather and ride. 



That the willows before my window They lift up their branches to heaven, 



Show me their silver side. And show me the silver side. 



* * * * 



When the air is sweet and still, 



And all heaven beams light and mirth, Tis not to fear and sadness, 

 Though their green boughs quiver and They owe that silver sheen; 



sparkle Unseen, in calm and gladness, 



They look and lean to earth. It underlies the green. 



And when the North-west triumphs, 



And baffled storm-clouds flee, 

 They fling out their silvery streamers, 



And hail the VICTORY. 



Hours at Home. 



