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THE SONG OF THE SOWER.

I.The maples redden in the sun; In autumn gold the beeches stand;Rest, faithful plough, thy work is done Upon the teeming land.Bordered with trees whose gay leaves flyOn every breath that sweeps the sky,The fresh dark acres furrowed lie, And ask the sower's hand.Loose the tired steer and let him goTo pasture where the gentians blow,And we, who till the grateful ground,Fling we the golden shower around.
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