The Barley Field

By Jean Blewett

The sunset has faded, there’s but a tinge,
Saffron pale, where a star of white
Has tangled itself in the trailing fringe
Of the pearl-gray robe of the summer night.
O the green of the barley fields grows deep,
The breath of the barley fields grows rare;
There is rustle and glimmer, sway and sweep—
The wind is holding high revel there,
Singing the song it has often sung—
Hark to the troubadour glad and bold:
“Sweet is the earth when the summer is young
And the barley fields are green and gold!”

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