In Spring they lie one broad expanse of green,
      O’er which the light winds run with glimmering feet: 
        Here, yellower stripes track out the creek unseen,
      There, darker growths o’er hidden ditches meet;
        And purpler stains show where the blossoms crowd, 110
        As if the silent shadow of a cloud
    Hung there becalmed, with the next breath to fleet.

        All round, upon the river’s slippery edge,
      Witching to deeper calm the drowsy tide,
        Whispers and leans the breeze-entangling sedge; 115
      Through emerald glooms the lingering waters slide,
        Or, sometimes wavering, throw back the sun,
        And the stiff banks in eddies melt and run
    Of dimpling light, and with the current seem to glide.

        In Summer ’tis a blithesome sight to see, 120
      As, step by step, with measured swing, they pass,
        The wide-ranked mowers wading to the knee,
      Their sharp scythes panting through the thick-set grass;
        Then, stretched beneath a rick’s shade in a ring,
        Their nooning take, while one begins to sing 125
    A stave that droops and dies ’neath the close sky of brass.

        Meanwhile that devil-may-care, the bobolink,
      Remembering duty, in mid-quaver stops
        Just ere he sweeps o’er rapture’s tremulous brink,
      And ’twixt the winrows most demurely drops, 130
        A decorous bird of business, who provides
        For his brown mate and fledglings six besides,
    And looks from right to left, a farmer ’mid his crops.

        Another change subdues them in the Fall,
      But saddens not; they still show merrier tints, 135
        Though sober russet seems to cover all;
      When the first sunshine through their dewdrops glints. 
        Look how the yellow clearness, streamed across,
        Redeems with rarer hues the season’s loss, 139
    As Dawn’s feet there had touched and left their rosy prints.

        Or come when sunset gives its freshened zest,
      Lean o’er the bridge and let the ruddy thrill,
        While the shorn sun swells down the hazy west,
      Glow opposite;—­the marshes drink their fill
        And swoon with purple veins, then slowly fade 145
        Through pink to brown, as eastward moves the shade,
    Lengthening with stealthy creep, of Simond’s darkening hill.

        Later, and yet ere Winter wholly shuts,
      Ere through the first dry snow the runner grates,
        And the loath cart-wheel screams in slippery ruts, 150
      While firmer ice the eager boy awaits,
        Trying each buckle and strap beside the fire,
        And until bedtime plays with his desire,
    Twenty times putting on and off his new-bought skates;—­