Midsummer Poem by Alexander Lawrence Posey
Midsummer
I SEE the millet combing gold
From summer sun,
In hussar caps, all day;
&nbs; And brown quails run
Far down the dusty way,
Fly up and whistle from the wold;
Sweet delusions on the mountains,
Of hounds in chase,
Beguiling every care
Of life apace,
Though only fevered air
That trembles, and dies in mounting.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
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