The Road Is Drowned In Dust; The Winds Vibrate With Heat And Noise Of Insect Wings That Sting The Stridulous Noon With Sound; No Waters Sing; Weeds Crowd The Path And Barricade The Gate. Within The Garden Summer Seems To Wait: Among Her Flowers, Dead Or Withering; About Her Skirts The Teasel'S Bristles Cling, And To Her Hair The Hot Burr Holds Like Hate. The Day Burns Downward, And With Fiery Crest Flames Like A Furnace; Then The Fierce Night Falls Dewless And Dead, Crowned With Its Thirsty Stars: A Dry Breeze Sweeps The Firmament And West The Lightning Leaps At Flickering Intervals, Like Some Caged Beast That Thunders At Its Bars.