Deep in its hay the Leghorn hides A round white nest; and, humming soft On roof and rafter, or its log-rude sides, Black in the sun-shot loft, The building hornet glides. Along its corn-crib, cautiously As thieving fingers, skulks the rat; Or, in warped stalls of fragrant timothy, Gnaws at some loosened slat, Or passes shadowy. A dream of drouth made audible Before its door, hot, smooth, and shrill All day the locust sings.... What other spell Shall hold it, lazier still Than the long day's, now tell?-- Dusk and the cricket and the strain Of tree-toad and of frog; and stars That burn above the rich west's ribbed stain; And dropping pasture bars, And cow-bells up the lane. Night and the moon and katydid, And leaf-lisp of the wind-touched boughs; And mazy shadows that the fire-flies thrid; And sweet breath of the cows; And the lone owl here hid. CLEARING Before the wind, with rain-drowned stocks, The pleated crimson hollyhocks Are bending; And, smouldering in the breaking brown, Above the hills that edge the town, The day is ending. The air is heavy with the damp; And, one by one, each cottage lamp Is lighted; Infrequent passers of the street Stroll on or stop to talk or greet, Benighted. I look beyond my city yard, And watch the white moon struggling hard, Cloud-buried; The wind is driving toward the east, A wreck of pearl, all cracked and creased And serried. At times the moon, erupting, streaks Some long cloud; like Andean peaks That double Horizon-vast volcano chains, The earthquake scars with lava veins That bubble. The wind that blows from out the hills Is like a woman's touch that stills A sorrow: The moon sits high with many a star In the deep calm: and fair and far Abides to-morrow. REQUIEM I. No more for him, where hills look down, Shall Morning crown Her rainy brow with blossom bands!-- Whose rosy hands Drop wild flowers of the breaking skies Upon the sod 'neath which he lies.-- No more! no more! II. No more for him where waters sleep, Shall Evening heap The long gold of the perfect days! Whose pale hand lays Great poppies of the afterglow Upon the turf he rests below.-- No more! no more! III. No more for him, where woodlands loom, Shall Midnight bloom The star-flow'red acres of the blue! Whose brown hands strew Dead leaves of darkness, hushed and deep, Upon the grave where he doth sleep.-- No more! no more! IV. The hills that Morning's footsteps wake; The waves that take A brightness from the Eve; the woods O'er which Night broods, Their spirits have, whose parts are one With his whose mortal part is done. Whose part is done! AT LAST What shall be said to him, Now he is dead? Now that his eyes are dim, Low lies his head? What shall be said to him, Now he is dead?