Madison Cawein

The road is drowned in dust; the winds vibrate.

With heat and noise of insect wings that sting

The stridulous noon with sound; no waters sing;

Weeds crowd the path and barricade the gate.

Within the garden summer seems to wait.

Among her flowers, dead or withering;

About her skirts the tussle bristles clings,

And to her hair the hot burr holds like hate.

The day burns downward, and with fiery crest

Flames like a furnace; then the fierce night falls

Dew less and dead, crowded with its thirsty stars;

A dry breeze sweeps the firmament and west

The lighting leaps at flickering intervals,

Like some caged beast that thunders at its bars.