GREAT banks of clouds skim o'er the sky;
Like hasty travellers they go,
Like piled-up drifts of fleecy snow,
They skim and sail and hurry by.
I sit upon a rugged stone
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With moss and lichen overgrown;
The trees above are making love,
And talk in language all their own,
Beyond the new-mown meadows stretch
Long fields of yellow-bearded wheat,
And thence the pirate blackbirds fetch
The ripening grain in swift retreat.
Along the streamlet, tall and red.
The tiger lilies raise their head, -
The lilies spared by mower's scythe
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