Drouth

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 teasel's bristles cling, 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 Dewless and dead, crowned with its thirsty stars: A dry breeze sweeps the firmament and west The lightning leaps at flickering intervals, Like some caged beast that thunders at its bars.