Riley Farm-Rhymes by James Whitcomb Riley
page 56 of 63 (88%)
page 56 of 63 (88%)
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Corn in the skillet, and
Sleepin' four abed! Ah! the jolly winters Of the long-ago! We were not as old as now-- O! No! No! JUNE O queenly month of indolent repose! I drink thy breath in sips of rare perfume, As in thy downy lap of clover-bloom I nestle like a drowsy child and doze The lazy hours away. The zephyr throws The shifting shuttle of the Summer's loom And weaves a damask-work of gleam and gloom Before thy listless feet. The lily blows A bugle-call of fragrance o'er the glade; And, wheeling into ranks, with plume and spear, Thy harvest-armies gather on parade; While, faint and far away, yet pure and clear, A voice calls out of alien lands of shade:-- All hail the Peerless Goddess of the Year! |
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