THE fickle year is in its golden prime;

The world is dreaming in a hazy luster,

And round the altars of our summer clime

The blushing roses cluster.

Upon the mountain dwells impassioned light,

And in the valley sleeps a shade depressing,

While fields of waving wealth enchant the sight,

Like gold of God's own blessing.

The plowman rests beneath the wayside tree,

The stream curls slowly round the hoofs of cattle;

And o'er the meadow floats the droning bee,

Fresh from his flowery battle.

Soft through the southern meshes of the vine,

I hear the birds unto each other calling;

And in the casket of the eglantine,

The tropic dews are falling.

Far in the distance rolls the sluggish sea,

With not enough of life in all its breathing

To bid the sail from its rude bonds go free,

And spurn its hempen wreathing.

On all there rests a halo and a bush,

The spell of poesy is on the blossom,

And nature's spirit slumbers in a blush,

Caught from high Heaven's bosom.

The past and future blond in one sweet sleep,

The world's a dream, and care a hidden mummer,

Whose tears, however sadly he may weep,

Are but the dews of summer.

Orpheus C. Kerr.