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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