Blows by her; and no ripple breaks the pond,

That gleams like flint between its rim of grasses,

Through which the dragonfly forever passes

Like splintered diamond.

[7] 

[7] 

II

Drouth weights the trees, and from the farmhouse eaves

The locust, pulse-beat of the summer day,

Throbs; and the lane, that shambles under leaves

Limp with the heat—a league of rutty way—

Is lost in dust; and sultry scents of hay

Breathe from the panting meadows heaped with sheaves—

Now, now, O bird, what hint is there of rain,

In thirsty heaven or on burning plain,

That thy keen eye perceives?

III

But thou art right. Thou prophesiest true.

For hardly hast thou ceased thy forecasting,

When, up the western fierceness of scorched blue,

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