Green slope of autumn fields, <br /> And soft November sun, <br />And golden leaves—they linger yet, <br />While tasselled pines new fragrance get, <br /> Though summer-time is done. <br /> <br />The hedge-rows wear a veil <br /> Of glistening spider threads, <br />And in the trees along the brook <br />The clematis, like whiffs of smoke, <br /> Its faded garland spreads. <br /> <br />See, here upon my hand, <br /> This gauzy-winged wild bee! <br />Now that the winds are laid, <br />He suns him unafraid <br /> Of winter-time or me. <br /> <br />I love the steepled town, <br /> The river winding down, <br />The slow salt tide that creeps <br />Beside a shore that sleeps, <br /> Dark with its pine woods' crown. <br /> <br />Here, high above them all <br /> Upon my broad-backed hill, <br />Far from shrill voices I, <br />And near the sun and sky, <br /> Can look and take my fill. <br /> <br />I breathe the sweet air in, <br /> While lower drops the sun, <br />And brighter all too soon <br />Grows the pale hunter's moon, <br /> The whole year's fairest one. <br /> <br />Oh, lovely light that fades <br /> Too soon from sky and field, <br />Oh, days that are too few, <br />How can I gather you, <br /> Or treasure what you yield! <br /> <br />Oh, sunshine, warm me through, <br /> And, soft wind, blow away <br />My foolishness, my fears, <br />And let some golden years <br /> Grow from this golden day!<br /><br />Sarah Orne Jewett<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/top-of-the-hill-2/
