Heavy with haze that merges and melts free
 Into the measureless depth on either hand,
 The full day rests upon the luminous land
 In one long noon of golden reverie.
 Now hath the harvest come and gone with glee.
 The shaven fields stretch smooth and clean away,
 Purple and green, and yellow, and soft gray,
 Chequered with orchards. Farther still I see
 Towns and dim villages, whose roof-tops fill
 The distant mist, yet scarcely catch the view.
 Thorold set sultry on its plateau'd hill,
 And far to westward, where yon pointed towers
 Rise faint and ruddy from the vaporous blue,
 Saint Catharines, city of the host of flowers.