THE sickle's song is silent o'er the meadow,
The reapers' noonday carol now is still,
A mellow autumn haze is on the lowlands,
The moving brown of quail upon the hill;
Some mystic touch bestirs the dreamy silence,
Some subtle essence of the garnered past
And we from endless search through weary pathways
Have found the blessed coign of earth at last.
Here let us know a moment of fulfillment,
Follow the thistle-feet upon their way,
Drink in the heart-born music of the waters,
In dreams forget there comes another day;
O ecstasy some unseen hand has wakened!
The pulsing heart is full of worship-fire,
And all the joy my soul has had in dreaming
Is ten-fold sweeter here with leaf and lyre.
—S. A. White.
Western, Field. Western Field - Sportsmans Magazine of the West. San Francisco: Western Field, 1907.
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