The Willow Bottom

Lush green the grass that grows between
The willows of the bottom-land;
Edged 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 one buzzard floating there:
Anon a woman’s high-pitched voice that sings
An old camp-meeting air.

A cock that flaps and 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 dreams the place, that you
Expect to see her gliding by,--
Hummed round of bees, through blossoms spilling dew,--
The Spirit of July.