THE AUGUST FIELDS. 
Who can see the green earth any more 
As she was by the sources of Time? 
Who imagines her fields as they lay 
In the sunshine, unworn by the plough? 
Who thinks as they thought, 
The tribes who then roam’d on her breast, 
Her vigorous, primitive sons? 
—MatrHew ARNoLD— The Future. 
Golden-brown is the color of the August fields as they 
lie basking in the glowing sun. Whatever may have 
been the beauties or charms of the earlier months, 
August is the golden age of the year. The earliest 
spring days looked forward to it for the fulfillment 
of their promise. Bright, indeed, were the days that 
are no more, but they were not the brightest. Their 
glories have grown dim and have faded away in the 
light of midsummer. We may long for the charms of 
those early days and may think of them as the golden 
age of the year, but the golden age of the year as of 
the world is not in the Past but in the Future. 
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