A SONG OF THE CORN.
When morns are freshest with early dew,
And birds pipe gayly from bush and tree,
When the crocus smiles 'neath skies of blue,
And the violet lists for the hum of the bee;
When thaw-winds blow from the sunny South,
And streams swell higher from day to day,
When maple, and elm, and birch are budded,
And the butterfly hangs o'er the fragrant May
Oh, then is the time when we plant the corn,
And the golden kernels are hidden from sight,
Hidden within the cool, damp earth,
Hidden away from the searching light.
When the spring has gone, and the buttercups
And daisies are dotting the meadows green,
When the bluebells are fringing the mountainside,
And the red rose blossoms, a royal queen;
When fields are greenest and skies are bluest,
And frolicsome breezes come and go,
When Berenice shines in the southern heaven,
And Spica kisses the hilltop low,
Then is the time when the corn springs up,
And stands with its tassels waving high,
A splendid army in green and gold,
'Midst the bearded barley and emerald rye.
When the mountains are crowned with purple mist,
And the apples glow 'mid the orchard's green,
When the grapes droop low on the clambering vine,
And the morning air is frosty and keen;
When the maples are blazing with scarlet flame,
The gorgeous flame of the quivering leaves,
Oh, then do we gather the golden corn,
And bind it close in its ample sheaves.
We gather it in, our priceless hoard,
Ripened and crisped by the summer's glow,
And up to Heaven we lift our thanks
For this gift of grain ere the winter snow.
St. Nicholas.