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These rolling billows of the hills
that have, all summer, swept their green
and fluid crests, laced bright with rills
and strung with thrush's song, down to the clean
wide sweep of pasture here, hold now
the scintillating rainbow fire
that sun makes, striking through the bow
against the western sky. Now higher
than their rocky shore they flash
into the autumn sky and sheen
with long bright rollers in a splash

of chrysolite and tourmaline.
These surging waves of hillside fire
strike cardinal, mahogany;
they sweep down to my pasture byre
and wash it golden clean for me.

-Frances Stockwell Lovell