THE WILLOW BOTTOM

Lush green the grass that grows between

The willows of the bottom-land;

Verged by the careless water, tall and green,

The brown-topped cat-tails stand.

The cows come gently here to browse,

Slow through the great-leafed sycamores;

You hear a dog bark from a low-roofed house

With cedars round its doors.

Then all is quiet as the wings

Of the high buzzard floating there;

Anon a woman's high-pitched voice that sings

An old camp-meeting air.

A flapping cock that crows; and then —

Heard drowsy through the rustling corn —

A flutter, and the cackling of a hen

Within a hay-sweet barn.

How still again! no water stirs;

No wind is heard; although the weeds

Are waved a little; and from silk-filled burrs

Drift by a few soft seeds.

So drugged with sleep and dreams, that you

Expect to see her gliding by,—

Hummed round of bees, through blossoms spilling dew,—

The Spirit of July.