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Rh The noon-sun’s finger turns the moss A-bask on the barn-roof, golden-green; The ricks are bright with paly sheen; The treetops rustle not, nor toss; All is silent, still, serene.

Only the swallows flit and flicker Rapidly, rapidly, round and round, Now fanning the straws on the court-yard ground With smooth down-swoop, now quicker and quicker Pulsing up with a strong rebound.

Margaret, at her window lying, Studies this ripening world outside, This book before her open’d wide; Looks for help in this strange pass—Dying; Sees; and lies there, satisfied!