With dripping brows, and the parched sod

Yields to the crushing foot like salt.

But here a little wind astir,

Seen waterward in jetting lines,

From yonder hillside topped with fir

Comes pungent with the breath of pines;

And here when all the noon hangs still,

White-hot upon the city tiles,

A perfume and a wintry chill

Breathe from the yellow lumber-piles.

[33]

And all day long there falls a blur

Of noises upon listless ears,

The rumble of the trams, the stir

Of barges at the clacking piers;

The champ of wheels, the crash of steam,

And ever, without change or stay,

The drone, as through a troubled dream,

Of waters falling far away.

A tug-boat up the farther shore

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