AMONG THE ORCHARDS

Already in the dew-wrapped vineyards dry

Dense weights of heat press down. The large bright drops

Shrink in the leaves. From dark acacia tops

The nuthatch flings his short reiterate cry;

And ever as the sun mounts hot and high

Thin voices crowd the grass. In soft long strokes

The wind goes murmuring through the mountain oaks.

Faint wefts creep out along the blue and die.

I hear far in among the motionless trees —

Shadows that sleep upon the shaven sod —

The thud of dropping apples. Reach on reach

Stretch plots of perfumed orchard, where the bees

Murmur among the full-fringed golden-rod,

Or cling half-drunken to the rotting peach.