July THE air without has taken fever; Fast I feel the beating of its pulse. The leaves are twisted on the maple, In the corn the autumn's premature; The weary butterfly hangs waiting For a breath to waft him thither at The touch, but falls, like truth unheeded, into dust-blown grass and hollyhocks. The air without is blinding dusty; Cool I feel the breezes blow; I see The sunlight, crowded on the porch, grow Smaller till absorbed in shadow; and The far blue hills are changed to gray, and Twilight lingers in the woods between; And now I hear the shower dancing In the cornfield and the thirsty grass. |
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