A Sketch
They sit on the porch together—father and daughter fair—
On the porch of a rambling farm-house roofswept by ancient trees,
And the old man, bearded and rough, plays with his darling's hair,
Her head in his lap, while he listens to the hum of his honey-bees.
The wind from the south blows softly, the sounds of the farm are still,
The plows are dropped with their shining shares, and the horses are loose in a field
Where they lazily crop in the cooling shade of sassafras trees on a hill,
And orchards of apples and peaches warm sun-sweet odors yield.
The bees fly swiftly in and out of the long old-fashioned gums
And hurry over the blossoming weeds, for summer is on the wane,
Already the autumn-call of the partridge up from the stubble comes,
And the lightest wind blows golden pears from the tree in the meadow-lane.
On the porch of a rambling farm-house roofswept by ancient trees,
And the old man, bearded and rough, plays with his darling's hair,
Her head in his lap, while he listens to the hum of his honey-bees.
The wind from the south blows softly, the sounds of the farm are still,
The plows are dropped with their shining shares, and the horses are loose in a field
Where they lazily crop in the cooling shade of sassafras trees on a hill,
And orchards of apples and peaches warm sun-sweet odors yield.
The bees fly swiftly in and out of the long old-fashioned gums
And hurry over the blossoming weeds, for summer is on the wane,
Already the autumn-call of the partridge up from the stubble comes,
And the lightest wind blows golden pears from the tree in the meadow-lane.
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