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by Ellwood Roberts

Month of sultn' noons and nights!
Fields are parched for want of rain;
But thou hast thy own delights,
Luscious fruits and golden grain.
Ripened wheat in heavy sheaves,
Merry workmen store away,
Pile in barns above the eaves,
On the mows of fragrant hay.

'Tis the bright noon of the year,
Overhead the hot sun gleams,
Through the quivering atmosphere,
Pierce all day his ardent beams.
Dewy night and misty morn
Follow sunset bright and clear;
In the field the waving corn
Sends aloft its stalk and ear.

Thunder-storms at midday rise,
Veiling noon in deepest gloom,
O'er the clouds the lightning flies,
How its flashes all illume!
Swiftly comes the dashing rain—
Hillsides perishing with thirst,
Drink, and are refreshed again;
Streams their limits quickly burst.

Gone the shower, the floods recede,
Brightly shines the sun again;
Heat and moisture fill the need,
Rich growth covers all the plain.
In the orchard apples show
Rich tints borrowed from the sun;
Mid the bright green leaves they glow,
Here and there a luscious one.

Month of sultry noons and nights!
Fields are parched for lack of rain,
But thou hast thy rare delights,
Sweet ripe fruits and golden grain.
Busy, languid harvest time,
Days to Nature's lovers dear;
Summer yet is in her prime,
And her glory crowns the year.

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