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…