THE OLD BARN

Low, swallow-swept and gray,

Between the orchard and the spring,

All its wide windows overflowing hay,

And crannied doors a-swing,

The old barn stands to-day.

Deep in its hay the Leghorn hides

A round white nest; and, humming soft

On roof and rafter, or its log-rude sides,

Black in the sun-shot loft,

The building hornet glides.

Along its corn-crib, cautiously

As thieving fingers, skulks the rat;

Or, in warped stalls of fragrant timothy,

Gnaws at some loosened slat,

Or passes shadowy.

A dream of drouth made audible

Before its door, hot, smooth, and shrill

All day the locust sings.... What other spell

Shall hold it, lazier still

Than the long day's, now tell?—

Dusk and the cricket and the strain

Of tree-toad and of frog; and stars

That burn above the rich west's ribbed stain;

And dropping pasture bars,

And cow-bells up the lane.

Night and the moon and katydid,

And leaf-lisp of the wind-touched boughs;

And mazy shadows that the fire-flies thrid;

And sweet breath of the cows;

And the lone owl here hid.