Meadow and Mountain 



Singing winds are bridal bells, 

 While the prairie bluestem tells 

 Every listening thing that passes 

 Of the thistle in the grasses. 



The days of summer wore away, and the weather- 

 beaten son of the prairie stood alone again with faded Beauty 

 pulseless at his feet. If any chanced to see her now, they 

 did not speak of Beauty nor of bloom, but a voice on the wind 

 was saying, "Poor Thistle Down." Bluestem was old and 

 brown when autumn came. Yet he stood by all that was 

 left of the beautiful thistle. Autumn plucked her tresses and 

 flung them to the winds. Then he bowed himself, and a 

 swift gust bore him away, and a voice that sounded echo- 

 like was saying: 



Let autumn winds blow, 



And scatter the snow 



For a winter of woe; i 



But together we go 



To a summer we know 



To the land of the unsetting sun. 



