Much In Little

Amid the iris and the rose, The honeysuckle and the bay, The wild earth for a moment goes In dust or weed another way. Small though its corner be, the weed Will yet intrude its creeping beard; The harsh blade and the hairy seed Recall the brutal earth we feared. And if no water touch the dust In some far corner, and one dare To breathe upon it, one may trust The spectre on the summer air: The risen dust alive with fire, The fire made visible, a blur Interrate, the pervasive ire Of foxtail and of hoarhound burr.