Classic Poem

Between the ranks of thistle, down the road,
The phantom flocks of sunbeams hastily,
With gilded feathers of the butterfly,
Disperse away; anon a weary load
Of grain, wild scented, being freshly mowed,
Comes smoking on; as from the brooding sky
There fall deliberate, still showers of shy,
Big rain-drops all around. The teamsters goad
The swaying oxen, steaming, to a shed
For covering. The brown and dusty trees
Are whispering, as eagerly they spread
Their branches in the rain, and stand at ease,
And listen, yonder in the clover bed
The happy buzzing of ten thousand bees!