The Idyll of the Standing-Stone, by Madison Cawein

  The teasel and the horsemint spread
    The hillside as with sunset, sown
    With blossoms, o'er the Standing-Stone
  That ripples in its rocky bed:
    There are no treasuries that hold
    Gold richer than the marigold
  That crowns its sparkling head.

  'Tis harvest time: a mower stands
    Among the morning wheat and whets
    His scythe, and for a space forgets
  The labor of the ripening lands;
    Then bends, and through the dewy grain
    His long scythe hisses, and again
  He swings it in his hands.

  And she beholds him where he mows
    On acres whence the water sends
    Faint music of reflecting bends
  And falls that interblend with flows:
    She stands among the old bee-gums,—
    Where all the apiary hums,—
  A simple bramble-rose.

  She hears him whistling as he leans,
    And, reaping, sweeps the ripe wheat by;
    She sighs and smiles, and knows not why,
  Nor what her heart's disturbance means:
    He whets his scythe, and, resting, sees
    Her rose-like 'mid the hives of bees,
  Beneath the flowering beans.

  The peacock-purple lizard creeps
    Along the rail; and deep the drone
    Of insects makes the country lone
  With summer where the water sleeps:
    She hears him singing as he swings
    His scythe—who thinks of other things
  Than toil, and, singing, reaps.