The crickets creak, and through the noonday glow,

That crazy fiddler of the hot mid-year,

The dry cicada plies his wiry bow

In long-spun cadence, thin and dusty sere:

From the green grass the small grasshoppers' din

Spreads soft and silvery thin:

And ever and anon a murmur steals

Into mine ears of toil that moves alway,

The crackling rustle of the pitch-forked hay

And lazy jerk of wheels.

[Pg 17]

As so I lie and feel the soft hours wane,

To wind and sun and peaceful sound laid bare,

That aching dim discomfort of the brain

Fades off unseen, and shadowy-footed care

Into some hidden corner creeps at last

To slumber deep and fast;

And gliding on, quite fashioned to forget,

From dream to dream I bid my spirit pass

Out into the pale green ever-swaying grass

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