by RICHARD G. HUBLER
THERE the gold falls; here;
There again. Sun through trees.
Here the shadows; there;
The breeze.
Singing in the blossoms now.
Summer choral: strophe and anti.
There the petaled chorus bow.
Here, I.
Sing the scale out, breeze!
Notes of year and season old —
Let me hear the apple-trees,
The singing and the gold.