A RUSTIC idyl of the ardent days
In middle summer. When the sun is new
The scythes go swishing all the wet grass through,
Making a music down in the meadow ways;
And as the noon draws on, in fields ablaze
With heat, the rows are gathered trig and true,
To simmer there beneath the cloudless blue,
And spill keen fragrance. In the twilight haze,
Behold! the high-piled wain along the road
Creaks cumbrously, the hayers spent and brown
Seated a-top—so huge their precious load
They brush the bushes, well-nigh topple down;
The field stands stripped—a gust of evening rain,
And all its face is odorous again.