| |
| IT is so quiet here. There lies | |
| The heath in noon’s warm sunshine gold. | |
| A gleam of light, all rosy, flies | |
| And hovers round the tombstones old. | |
| The herbs are blooming; fragrance fair | 5 |
| Now fills the bluish summer air. | |
| |
| The beetles rush through bush and trees, | |
| In little golden coats of mail; | |
| And on the heather-bells the bees | |
| Alight, on all the branches frail. | 10 |
| From out the grass there starts a throng | |
| Of larks and fills the air with song. | |
| |
| A lonely house, half-crumbled, low: | |
| The farmer, in the doorway bent, | |
| Stands watching in the sunlight’s glow | 15 |
| The busy bees in sweet content. | |
| And on a stone near by his boy | |
| Is carving pipes from reeds with joy. | |
| |
| Scarce trembling through the peace of noon, | |
| The town-clock strikes—from far, it seems. | 20 |
| The old man’s lids are drooping soon, | |
| And of his honey crops he dreams.— | |
| The sounds that fill our time of stress | |
| Have not yet reached this loneliness. | |
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