Pillowed and hushed on the silent plain, <br />Wrapped in her mantle of golden grain, <br /> <br />Wearied of pleasuring weeks away, <br />Summer is lying asleep to-day,-- <br /> <br />Where winds come sweet from the wild-rose briers <br />And the smoke of the far-off prairie fires; <br /> <br />Yellow her hair as the goldenrod, <br />And brown her cheeks as the prairie sod; <br /> <br />Purple her eyes as the mists that dream <br />At the edge of some laggard sun-drowned stream; <br /> <br />But over their depths the lashes sweep, <br />For Summer is lying to-day asleep. <br /> <br />The north wind kisses her rosy mouth, <br />His rival frowns in the far-off south, <br /> <br />And comes caressing her sunburnt cheek, <br />And Summer awakes for one short week,-- <br /> <br />Awakes and gathers her wealth of grain, <br />Then sleeps and dreams for a year again.<br /><br />Emily Pauline Johnson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/harvest-time/
