Sarah Orne Jewett

Top of The Hill

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Green slope of autumn fields,
And soft November sun,
And golden leaves—they linger yet,
While tasselled pines new fragrance get,
Though summer-time is done.

The hedge-rows wear a veil
Of glistening spider threads,
And in the trees along the brook
The clematis, like whiffs of smoke,
Its faded garland spreads.

See, here upon my hand,
This gauzy-winged wild bee!
Now that the winds are laid,
He suns him unafraid
Of winter-time or me.

I love the steepled town,
The river winding down,
The slow salt tide that creeps
Beside a shore that sleeps,
Dark with its pine woods' crown.

Here, high above them all
Upon my broad-backed hill,
Far from shrill voices I,
And near the sun and sky,
Can look and take my fill.

I breathe the sweet air in,
While lower drops the sun,
And brighter all too soon
Grows the pale hunter's moon,
The whole year's fairest one.

Oh, lovely light that fades
Too soon from sky and field,
Oh, days that are too few,
How can I gather you,
Or treasure what you yield!

Oh, sunshine, warm me through,
And, soft wind, blow away
My foolishness, my fears,
And let some golden years
Grow from this golden day!

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Sarah Orne Jewett