ERE THE HARVEST TIME.

All the earth lies hushed and silent, Underneath the summer sun, Gardens blush with later roses, In the pleasant orchard closes Fruits are ripening one by one. Cool between its fringing grasses, Drowsily the river flows, Singing, but the sudden hushes, Not as in the spring it rushes, Widened by the melting snows. Full-leafed trees scarce lift their branches, Voiceless all the feathered band; Fledglings faltering flights are trying, Ere the moment comes for flying To some far-off foreign land. Gone the thrill and stir of Springtide— Ere the year had reached its prime, Nature laboured without measure, Now she dreams in golden leisure— Resting until harvest time.