A few rank burdocks, gaunt lone guards, are seen Within the hollows. Ragged willow trees— Whose leaves scarce shiver when a scorching breeze Quivers and dies—stand by the parching stones That like a narrow trail of bleaching bones,
Mark where the streamlet died. And all is still Save when across the open space a crow Toils wearily from shade to shade; or when A small cicada lifts a protest shrill,
Whirrs for a moment and is dumb again.
A molten ball behind the Western hills
The stifled sun sinks down. A bird’s faint notes
Sound from the shelter of the underbrush;
The faded maple woods are color strewn;
Then suddenly—up from the farm land floats A milking call. It breaks upon the hush And all the dread oppressive silence fills;
The throbbing earth stirs with uneasy moan, And overhead a star keeps watch alone.
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