Madison Cawein

The hornets build in plaster-dropping rooms,

And on its mossy porch the lizard lies;

Around its chimneys slow the swallow flies,

And on its roof the locusts snow their blooms.

Like some sad thought that broods here, old perfumes

Haunt its dim stairs; the cautious zephyr tries

Each gusty door, like some dead hand, then sighs

With ghostly lips among the attic glooms.

And now a heron, now a kingfisher,

Flits in the willows where the riffle seems

At each faint fall to hesitate to leap,

Fluttering the silence with a little stir.

Here Summer seems a placid face asleep,

And the near world a figment of her dreams.

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