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.