Noon in a Bluegrass Pasture

Julia Stockton Dinsmore

The god of day his azure shield outspreads
And lets his dazzling arrows earthward fly;
The giant trees undaunted lift their heads.
Crouched at their feet the trembling shadows lie.

The wind is mute that softly stirs the air;
The birds are still upon the leafy limbs,
Save one that in the ether, cool and rare,
On billows blue, with sweeping pinions swims.

Gladly I lay my tired limbs on the grass,
For I of toil and stress have borne my part;
Have seen my joys like morning mist-clouds pass;
The green earth warms me like a mother's heart.

Here let me rest, sweet mother, evermore;
Change me to grass like this, or fragile fern,
Or precious meed of toil from thy rich store;
Dust of thy dust, to thee I would return.

The dew of youth is gone. I would not stay
For the lone coolness of the twilight hour,
Like morning glory let me fold away
In noontide weariness, life's faded flower.