Through shimmering skies the big clouds slowly sail;

A faint breeze lingers in the rustling beech;

Atop the withered oak with vagrant speech

The brawling crows call down the sleepy vale;

Unseen the glad cicadas trill their tale

Of deep content in changeless vibrant screech,

And where the old fence rambles out of reach,

The drowsy lizard hugs the shaded rail.

Warm odors from the hayfield wander by,

Afar the homing reaper's noontide tune

Floats on the mellow stillness like a sigh;

One butterfly, ghost of a vanished June,

Soars dimly where in realms of purple sky

Dips the wan crescent of the vapory moon.

[45]

[45]

THE SNOW MAN.

Poor shape grotesque that careless hands have wrought!

Frail wistful thing, left gaping at the sun

With empty grin, 'tis well no blood shall run

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