Lewis Frank Tooker (1855–1925)

WHAT heights of rest are in these silences!

What thirst of plains the sunlight seems to slake!

The meadows bask. No bitter north-winds wake

The tree-tops from their fruitless dream of ease.

The slow brooks murmur like a swarm of bees,

And some shy creature in the tangled brake

Darts and is still, and trooping sparrows make

A moment’s chatter in the cedar-trees.

Then on far skies they quickly seem to cease,

Or, wheeling, drop behind some stubbled mound;

But all day long the brooks find no release,

And lift their wandering undertones of sound.

This is the year’s full flower, the crown of peace,

The sunlight’s harvest, and the south-wind’s bound.