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.