The spire of the church and the windows
Are all ablaze in the sun.
He has left the plough in the furrow,
His summer day's work is done.

And I hear him carolling softly
A sweet and simple lay,
That we often have sung together,
While he turns the oxen away.

The buttercups in the pasture
Twinkle and gleam like stars.
He has gathered a golden handful,
A leaning over the bars.

He has shaken the curls from his forehead,
And is looking up this way,--
O where is my sun-bonnet, mother?
He was thinking of me all day,--

And I'm going down to the meadow,
For I know he is waiting there,
To wreathe the sunshiny blossoms
In the curls of my yellow hair.



THE VOICE OF MANY WATERS.