Noon With A Depth Of Shadow Beneath The Trees Shakes In The Heat, Quivers To The Sound Of Lutes: Half Shaded, Half Sunlit, A Great Bowl Of Fruits Glistens Purple And Golden: The Flasks Of Wine Cool In Their Panniers Of Snow: Silks Muffle And Shine: Dim Velvet, Where Through The Leaves A Sunbeam Shoots, Rifts In A Pane Of Scarlet: Fingers Tapping The Roots Keep Languid Time To The Music'S Soft Slow Decline. Suddenly From The Gate Rises Up A Cry, Hideous Broken Laughter, Scarce Human In Sound; Gaunt Clawed Hands, Thrust Through The Bars Despairingly, Clutch Fast At The Scented Air, While On The Ground Lie The Poor Plague-Stricken Carrions, Who Have Found Strength To Crawl Forth And Curse The Sunshine And Die.