Читать книгу Niagara, and Other Poems - Benjamin Copeland - Страница 4

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The meadow air is sweet;—

The cowslip’s cup of gold

Is full of fresh and fragrant dew—

More full than it can hold.

The meadow air is sweet;—

The blackbird’s mellow note,

Like water in a little brook,

Flows gurgling from his throat.

The meadow air is sweet;—

The stream that cheers the lea

Will feel the willow’s tender kiss,

E’en to the distant sea.

The meadow air is sweet;—

Hark! from the old elm tree:—

Ah! only lovers understand

The oriole’s ecstasy.

The meadow air is sweet;—

The clover, handsome-white,

With dainty odors woos the bee,

And fills her with delight.

The meadow air is sweet;—

The bobolink is there!

When he is mute a faery flute

Seems echoing in the air.

The meadow air is sweet;—

The daisy in the grass

Looks up to see the clouds, and feel

Their shadow as they pass.

The meadow air is sweet;—

The swallow flashes by,

Too merry for a moment’s rest

Between the earth and sky.

The meadow air is sweet;—

The day wanes in the west,

And twilight’s soothing shadows lull

A weary world to rest.

The meadow air is sweet;—

Like altar incense rare,

It blends the robin’s even-song

With the little children’s prayer.