Would ye haste to the banquet rare,
  Taste of the feast sublime? 
Brush from the brow the lines of care,
  Scoff at the touch of Time? 
Come in the glow of the olden days,
  Come with a youthful face,
Come through the old familiar ways,
  Up from the dear, old place.

Barefoot, trip through the meadow lane,
  Laughing at bruise and scratch;
Come, with your hands all rich with stain
  Fresh from the blackberry patch;
Come where the orchard spreads its store
  And the breath of the clover greets;
Quick! they are waiting you here once more,—­
  Grandfather’s “summer sweets.”

Grandfather’s “summer sweets” are ripe,
  Out on the gnarled, old tree—­
Out where the robin redbreasts pipe,
  And buzzes the bumblebee;
Swinging high on the bending bough,
  Scenting the lazy breeze,
What is the gods’ ambrosia now
  To apples of gold like these?

* * * * *

MIDSUMMER

Sun like a furnace hung up overhead,
Burnin’ and blazin’ and blisterin’ red;
Sky like an ocean, so blue and so deep,
One little cloud-ship becalmed and asleep;
Breezes all gone and the leaves hangin’ still,
Shimmer of heat on the medder and hill,—­Labor
and laziness callin’ to me: 
“Hoe or the fishin’-pole—­which’ll it be?”

There’s the old cornfield out there in the sun,
Showin’ so plain that there’s work ter be done;
There’s the mean weeds with their tops all a-sprout,
Seemin’ ter stump me ter come clean ’em out;
But, there’s the river, so clear and so cool,
There’s the white lilies afloat on the pool,
Scentin’ the shade ’neath the old maple tree—­
“Hoe or the fishin’-pole—­which’ll it be?”

Dusty and dry droops the corn in the heat,
Down by the river a robin sings sweet,
Gray squirrels chatter as if they might say: 
“Who’s the chump talkin’ of workin’ to-day?”
Robin’s song tells how the pickerel wait
Under the lily-pads, hungry for bait;
I ought ter make for that cornfield, I know: 
But, “Where’s the fishin’-pole?  Hang the old hoe!”

* * * * *

“SEPTEMBER MORNIN’S”

Oh, the cool September mornin’s! now they’re with us once agin,
With the grasses wet and shinin’, and the air so clear and thin,
When the cheery face of Natur’ seems ter want ter let yer know
That she’s done with lazy summer and is brimmin’ full of “go”;
When yer hear the cattle callin’ and the hens a-singin’ out,
And the pigeons happy cooin’ as they flutter ’round about,
And there’s snap and fire and sparkle in the way a feller feels,
Till he fairly wants ter holler and ter jump and crack his heels.