Iv

From ragweed fallows, rye-fields, heaped with sheaves, From blistering rocks, no moss or lichens crust, And from the road, where every hoof-stroke heaves A cloud of burning dust, The hotness quivers, making limp the leaves, That loll like panting tongues. The pulsing heat Seems a wan wimple that the Summer weaves, A veil, in which she wraps,--as in a sheet,-- The shriveling corn and wheat.