  Its rotting fence one scarcely sees Through sumach and wild blackberries, Thick elder and the white wild-rose, Big ox-eyed daisies where the bees Hang droning in repose. The limber lizards glide away Gray on its moss and lichens gray; Warm butterflies float in the sun, Gay Ariels of the lonesome day; And there the ground squirrels run. The red-bird stays one note to lift; High overhead dark swallows drift; 'Neath sun-soaked clouds of beaten cream, Through which hot bits of azure sift, The gray hawks soar and scream. Among the pungent weeds they fill Dry grasshoppers pipe with a will; And in the grass-grown ruts, where stirs The basking snake, mole-crickets shrill; O'er head the locust whirrs. At evening, when the sad West turns To dusky Night a cheek that burns, The tree-toads in the wild-plum sing, And ghosts of long-dead flowers and ferns The wind wakes whispering. |
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