There, from its entrance, lost in matted vines,-
Where in the valley foams a water-fall, –
Is glimpsed a ruined mill’s remaining
wall;
Here, by the road, the oxeye daisy mines
Hot brass and bronze; the trumpet-trailer
shines
Red as the plumage of the cardinal.
Faint from the forest comes the rain-crow’s
call
Where dusty Summer dreams among the pines.
This is the spot where Spring writes wildflower
verses
In primrose pink, while, drowsing o’er
his reins,
The ploughman, all unnoticing, plods along:
And where the Autumn opens weedy purses
Of sleepy silver, while the corn-heaped
wains
Rumble the bridge like some deep throat
of song.