The Rainy Summer.There's much afoot in heaven and earth this year;
The winds hunt up the sun, hunt up the moon,
Trouble the dubious dawn, hasten the drear
Height of a threatening noon.No breath of boughs, no breath of leaves, of fronds
May linger or grow warm; the trees are loud;
The forest, rooted, tosses in her bonds,
And strains against the cloud.No scents may pause within the garden-fold;
The rifled flowers are cold as ocean-shells;
Bees, humming in the storm, carry their cold
Wild honey to cold cells.
A Dead Harvest(In Kensington Gardens)
Along the graceless grass of town
They rake the rows of red and brown,--
Dead leaves, unlike the rows of hay
Delicate, touched with gold and grey,
Raked long ago and far away.A narrow silence in the park,
Between the lights a narrow dark.
One street rolls on the north; and one,
Muffled, upon the south cloth run;
Amid the mist the work is done.A futile crop!-for it the fire
Smoulders, and, for a stack, a pyre.
So go the town's lives on the breeze,
Even as the sheddings of the trees;
Bosom nor barn is filled with these.
-106-
Questia, a part of Gale, Cengage Learning. www.questia.com
Publication information:
Book title: Modern Verse in English, 1900-1950.
Contributors: David Cecil - Editor, Allen Tate - Editor.
Publisher: Macmillan.
Place of publication: New York.
Publication year: 1958.
Page number: 106.
This material is protected by copyright and, with the exception of fair use, may not be further copied, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means.
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