The Old Barn

Low, swallow-swept and gray,     Between the orchard and the spring,     All its wide windows overflowing hay,     And crannied doors a-swing,     The old barn stands to-day.     Deep in its hay the Leghorn hides     A round white nest; and, humming soft     On roof and rafter, or its log-rude sides,     Black in the sun-shot loft,     The building hornet glides.     Along its corn-crib, cautiously     As thieving fingers, skulks the rat;     Or in warped stalls of fragrant timothy,     Gnaws at some loosened slat,     Or passes shadowy.     A dream of drouth made audible     Before its door, hot, smooth, and shrill     All day the locust sings. .    What other spell     Shall hold it, lazier still     Than the long day's, now tell:     Dusk and the cricket and the strain     Of tree-toad and of frog; and stars     That burn above the rich west's ribbd stain;     And dropping pasture bars,     And cow-bells up the lane.     Night and the moon and katydid,     And leaf-lisp of the wind-touched boughs;     And mazy shadows that the fireflies thrid;     And sweet breath of the cows,     And the lone owl here hid.