Bee-Bitten In The Orchard Hung The Peach; Or, Fallen In The Weeds, Lay Rotting, Where Still Sucked And Sung The Gray Bee, Boring To Its Seed'S Pink Pulp And Honey Blackly Stung. The Orchard-Path, Which Led Around The Garden, With Its Heat One Twinge Of Dinning Locusts, Picket-Bound And Ragged, Brought Me Where One Hinge Held Up The Gate That Scraped The Ground. All Seemed The Same: The Martin-Box Sun-Warped With Pigmy Balconies Still Stood, With All Its Twittering Flocks, Perched On Its Pole Above The Peas And Silvery-Seeded Onion-Stocks. The Clove-Pink And The Rose; The Clump Of Coppery Sunflowers, With The Heat Sick To The Heart: The Garden Stump, Red With Geranium-Pots, Arid Sweet With Moss And Ferns, This Side The Pump. I Rested, With One Hesitant Hand Upon The Gate. The Lonesome Day, Droning With Insects, Made The Land One Dry Stagnation. Soaked With Hay And Scents Of Weeds The Hot Wind Fanned. I Breathed The Sultry Scents, My Eyes Parched As My Lips. And Yet I Felt My Limbs Were Ice. As One Who Flies To Some Wild Woe. How Sleepy Smelt The Hay-Sweet Heat That Soaked The Skies! Noon Nodded; Dreamier, Lonesomer For One Long, Plaintive, Forest-Side Bird-Quaver. And I Knew Me Near Some Heartbreak Anguish.. . She Had Died. I Felt It, And No Need To Hear! I Passed The Quince And Pear-Tree; Where, All Up The Porch, A Grape-Vine Trails How Strange That Fruit, Whatever Air Or Earth It Grows In, Never Fails To Find Its Native Flavour There! And She Was As A Flower, Too, That Grows Its Proper Bloom And Scent No Matter What The Soil: She, Who, Born Better Than Her Place, Still Lent Grace To The Lowliness She Knew.. . They Met Me At The Porch, And Were Sad-Eyed With Weeping. Then The Room Shut Out The Country'S Heat And Purr, And Left Light Stricken Into Gloom So Love And I Might Look On Her.