Page:The Writings of John Green Whittier (v.1).pdf/277

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AMONG THE HILLS.
267
Rivers of gold-mist flowing down From far celestial fountains,—The great sun flaming through the rifts Beyond the wall of mountains!
We paused at last where home-bound cows Brought down the pasture’s treasure,And in the barn the rhythmic flails Beat out a harvest measure.
We heard the night-hawk’s sullen plunge, The crow his tree-mates calling:The shadows lengthening down the slopes About our feet were falling.
And through them smote the level sun In broken lines of splendor,Touched the gray rocks and made the green Of the shorn grass more tender.
The maples bending o’er the gate, Their arch of leaves just tintedWith yellow warmth, the golden glow Of coming autumn hinted.
Keen white between the farm-house showed, And smiled on porch and trellis,The fair democracy of flowers That equals cot and palace.
And weaving garlands for her dog, ’Twixt chidings and caresses,A human flower of childhood shook The sunshine from her tresses.
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