Page:The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 21.djvu/9



LONG the roadside, like the flowers of gold

That tawny Incas in their gardens grew,

Heavy with sunshine droops the golden-rod,

And the red pennons of the cardinal-flowers

Hang motionless upon their upright staves.

The sky is hot and hazy, and the wind,

Wing-weary with its long flight from the south,

Unfelt; yet, closely scanned, yon maple leaf

With faintest motion, as one stirs in dreams,

Confesses it. The locust by the wall

Stabs the noon-silence with his sharp alarm.

A single hay-cart down the dusty road

Creaks slowly, with its driver fast asleep

On the load's top. Against the neighboring hill,

Huddled along the stone wall's shady side,

The sheep show white, as if a snow-drift still

Defied the dog-star. Through the open door

A drowsy smell of flowers—gray heliotrope,

And white sweet-clover, and shy mignonette—

Comes faintly in, and silent chorus lends

To the pervading symphony of peace.

No time is this for hands long overworn

To task their strength; and (unto Him be praise

Who giveth quietness!) the stress and strain

Of years that did the work of centuries

VOL. XXI.—NO. 123.