The Old Byway

Its rotting fence one scarcely sees Through sumac and wild blackberries, Thick elder and the bramble-rose, Big ox-eyed daisies where the bees Hang droning in repose.

The little lizards lie all day Gray on its rocks of lichen-gray; And, insect-Ariels of the sun, The butterflies make bright its way, Its path where chipmunks run.

A lyric there the redbird lifts, While, twittering, the swallow drifts 'Neath wandering clouds of sleepy cream,-- In which the wind makes azure rifts,-- O'er dells where wood-doves dream.

The brown grasshoppers rasp and bound Mid weeds and briers that hedge it round; And in its grass-grown ruts,--where stirs The harmless snake,--mole-crickets sound Their faery dulcimers.

At evening, when the sad west turns To lonely night a cheek that burns, The tree-toads in the wild-plum sing; And ghosts of long-dead flowers and ferns The winds wake, whispering.