An Etching

A harvester throws up the sheaves,
And hums a merry old refrain,
Some thistles show their prickly leaves
Among the swaths of yellow grain.

The briar bushes soft and green
Quite hide the zig-gag fence away,
And all the space that lies between
Is carpeted with new-mown hay.

The heat of noonday presses all
To rest and silence, full and deep,
And still the cheery robins call
To show that they are not asleep.