Autumn - poppy, sunflower, pumpkin and flax

When on the breath of autumn breeze,
From pastures dry and brown,
Goes floating like an idle thought
The fair white thistle-down,
Oh then what joy to walk at will
Upon the golden harvest hill!
What joy in dreamy ease to lie
Amid a field new shorn,
And see all round on sun-lit slopes
The pil’d-up stacks of corn;
And send the fancy wandering o’er
All pleasant harvest-fields of yore.