When the wayside tangles blaze 

In the low September sun, 

When the flowers of summer days

Droop and wither one by one, 

Reaching up through bush and brier 

Sumptuous brow and heart of fire, 

Flaunting high its wind-rocked plume, 

Brave with wealth of native bloom, 


When the meadow lately shorn,

Parched and languid, swoons with pain, 

When the life-blood, night and morn,

Shrinks in every throbbing vein, 

Round her fallen tarnished urn 

Leaping watch-fires brighter burn; 

Royal arch o'er autumn's gate, 

Bending low with lustrous weight, 


In the pasture's rude embrace, 

All o'errun with tangled vines,

Where the thistle claims its place, 

And the straggling hedge confines, .

Bearing still the sweet impress

Of unfettered loveliness,

In the field and by the wall,

Binding, clasping, crowning all, 


Nature lies disheveled, pale,

With her feverish lips apart; 

Day by day the pulses fail

Nearer to her bounding heart; 

Yet that slackened grasp doth hold 

Store of pure and genuine gold: 

Quick thou comest, strong and free, 

Type of all the wealth to be, 


 All the Year Sound.