I walk without flinching through the burning cathedral of the summer.
My bank of wild grass is majestic and full of music.
It is a fire that solitude presses against my lips.
"Love is to the heart what the summer is to the farmer's year...
it brings to harvest all the loveliest flowers of the soul."
~ Reverend Billy Graham
This was one of those perfect New England days in late summer
where the spirit of autumn takes a first stealing flight, like a spy,
through the ripening country-side, and, with feigned sympathy
for those who droop with August heat,
puts her cool cloak of bracing air
about leaf and flower and human shoulders.
~ Sarah Orne Jewett, The Courting of Sister Wisby, 1887