Rainless

The locust builds its are of sound And tops it with a spire; The roadside leaves pant to the ground With dust from hoof and tire. The insects, day and night, make din, And with the heat grow shriller; And everywhere great spiders spin, And crawls the caterpillar. The wells are dry; the creeks are pools; Weeds cram their beds with bristles; And when a wind breathes, naught it cools, The air grows white with thistles. For months the drouth has burned and baked The wood and field and garden; The flower-plots are dead; and, raked, Or mown, the meadows harden. The Summer, sunk in godlessness, From quarter unto quarter, Now drags, now lifts a dusty dress, That shows a sloven garter. The child of Spring, it now appears, Has turned a drab, a harlot, Death's doxy; Death's, who near her leers In rags of gold and scarlet