A Golden Glory Fills the Earth

 August's Here
by Charles Frederick Forshaw 

Ripeness abounds, for August's here,
To fill us with a joy sincere:
The field, the glen, the wood, the shade,
The barren moors, the blossomed glade,
All, all foretell that she is near.

A golden glory fills the earth,
And hails with joy blest August's birth;
Luxurious gladness fills the land,
For, touched by August's mellow hand,
It basks no more in careworn dearth.

Each leaf seems by her supreme will
Matured, and is more beauteous still;
The insect world awakes to find
That she to them is also kind, 
And now they Nature's ways fulfil.

The hills, too, seem no longer drear,
For lo! the purple lings appear;
They bloom on all sides fresh and free,
Full of an inborn modesty,
And telling plainly -- August's here.