The poplar and the aspen tree
Silver expectantly;
The spinning whirligigs of dust
Dance as though driven by a goad
Along the sinuous length of road.
The wagon couplings groan and creak,
And from afar the raucous peacocks shriek.
The ancient vane, an arrow streaked with rust,
Trembles and veers
As though it shook with fears;
Gray streamers, twisted and entwined
Like elf-locks, blur the spacious blue.
Strange whispers, stealthy as the feet of night,
Creep in upon the wind,
And drift away as fades some phantom crew
Into the moonless murk of lonely seas.
Birds dartle low, with quavering, startled cries;
Hushed is the hum of bees.
The cattle huddle; mottled butterflies
Clutch at the mullein and the milkweed stalk;
The hovering hawk
Wings arrowy to woodward, and swart Drouth,
Triumphant in its tyranny so long,
Takes flight before the rain-bestowing South
Whose touch to earth is soothing as a song.