Alabama, 19 13. 19 



THE JULY HILLS. 



THE July hills wear garments green 

 Against the skies of blue, 

 And noonday sun in splendor rare 

 Lends them a burnished hue. 



The leafage stirs upon the oak 



At touch of fairy's breath, 

 And when subsides the gentle force, 



It symbolizes death. 



Anon, by zephyr's magic touch, 



The hills are flecked in white ; 

 Myriad spots upon the green — 



A transformation quite. 



But yet, no miracle's been wrought, 



For, says the gentle swain, 

 It is a token — nature's flag — 



Of eftsoons coming rain. 



The straggling fences along the base 



The common's extent bar, 

 And twinkling bells within the pale 



May sound the hills afar. 



The matin songs from woodland depths 



Sound clear from many a spray ; 

 There's joy within the minstrel's breast 



That welcomes forth the day. 



And when at night the timid stars 



Bedight the hills in gray, 

 I think me then that beauty all 



Does not belong to day. 



And so, a song for July hills 



I sing in glad refrain ; 

 They lend glad speech to this slow tongue, 



Whether in shine or rain. 



— Frank Monroe Beverly. 



