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.