THE WILLOW BOTTOM

Lush green the grass that grows between The willows of the bottom-land; Verged by the careless water, tall and green, The brown-topped cat-tails stand. The cows come gently here to browse, Slow through the great-leafed sycamores; You hear a dog bark from a low-roofed house With cedars round its doors. Then all is quiet as the wings Of the high buzzard floating there; Anon a woman's high-pitched voice that sings An old camp-meeting air. A flapping cock that crows; and then— Heard drowsy through the rustling corn— A flutter, and the cackling of a hen Within a hay-sweet barn. How still again! no water stirs; No wind is heard; although the weeds Are waved a little; and from silk-filled burrs Drift by a few soft seeds. So drugged with sleep and dreams, that you Expect to see her gliding by,— Hummed round of bees, through blossoms spilling dew,— The Spirit of July.