Charles Ives — Pictures

The ripe corn bends low When the wind blows fair Like curtseying maidens Curts'ying maidens With golden hair Dark billows reflect The gath'ring clouds; The white foam is frothing Like tossing shrouds Winds are sobbing In pinetree wood The moor is a king's robe Stained with blood The wild rose sleeps above the pool Round her sleepeth every leaf; The night air, soft and cool Cradles them all above the pool And all their shadows sleep beneath