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.