Эмили Полин Джонсон (Emily Pauline Johnson)

Harvest Time

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

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