A silence, the brief sabbath of an hour,
	Reigns o’er the fields; the laborer sits within
	His dwelling; he has left his steers awhile,
	Unyoked, to bite the herbage, and his dog
	Sleeps stretched beside the door-stone in the shade.
	Now the gray marmot, with uplifted paws,
	No more sits listening by his den, but steals
	Abroad, in safety, to the clover-field,
	And crops its juicy blossoms.

William Cullen Bryant.