The Deserted Pasture

I love the stony pasture That no one else will have. The old gray rocks so friendly seem, So durable and brave. In tranquil contemplation It watches through the year, Seeing the frosty stars arise, The slender moons appear. Its music is the rain-wind, Its choristers the birds, And there are secrets in its heart Too wonderful for words. It keeps the bright-eyed creatures That play about its walls, Though long ago its milking herds Were banished from their stalls. Only the children come there, For buttercups in May, Or nuts in autumn, where it lies Dreaming the hours away. Long since its strength was given To making good increase, And now its soul is turned again To beauty and to peace. There in the early springtime The violets are blue, And adder-tongues in coats of gold Are garmented anew. There bayberry and aster Are crowded on its floors, When marching summer halts to praise The Lord of Out-of-doors. And there October passes In gorgeous livery, - In purple ash, and crimson oak, And golden tulip tree. And when the winds of winter Their bugle blasts begin, The snowy hosts of heaven arrive To pitch their tents therein.