Classic Poem

The warm air trembling o'er the dusty road
That winds — a tawny snake — around the hill;
No breeze to wake the heavy, drooping leaves,
No sound except the locusts' feeble trill.

Gay knots of butterflies with pulsing wings,
That scatter at the lone wayfarer's feet;
The roadside rills with all their music fled,
The long grass dead and dying in the heat.

An ashen sky above the voiceless woods,
A flash of waters where the boughs are thin;
The hazy mountains reaching far beyond,
A farmhouse closed, and silent all within.

The panting cattle 'neath the dappled shade,
Knee-deep within the silver of the stream;
And mine a dell beside a rustic bridge,
Where even love would pause awhile to dream.