Page:A midsummer holiday and other poems (IA midsummerholiday00swin).pdf/117



Afric, winged with death and fire, Pants in our pleasant English air. Each blade of grass is tense as wire, And all the wood's loose trembling hair Stark in the broad and breathless glare Of hours whose touch wastes herb and tree. This bright sharp death shines everywhere; Life yearns for solace toward the sea.