The Locust Builds Its Are Of Sound And Tops It With A Spire; The Roadside Leaves Pant To The Ground With Dust From Hoof And Tire. The Insects, Day And Night, Make Din, And With The Heat Grow Shriller; And Everywhere Great Spiders Spin, And Crawls The Caterpillar. The Wells Are Dry; The Creeks Are Pools; Weeds Cram Their Beds With Bristles; And When A Wind Breathes, Naught It Cools, The Air Grows White With Thistles. For Months The Drouth Has Burned And Baked The Wood And Field And Garden; The Flower-Plots Are Dead; And, Raked, Or Mown, The Meadows Harden. The Summer, Sunk In Godlessness, From Quarter Unto Quarter, Now Drags, Now Lifts A Dusty Dress, That Shows A Sloven Garter. The Child Of Spring, It Now Appears, Has Turned A Drab, A Harlot, Death'S Doxy; Death'S, Who Near Her Leers In Rags Of Gold And Scarlet