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