Low, Swallow-Swept And Gray, Between The Orchard And The Spring, All Its Wide Windows Overflowing Hay, And Crannied Doors A-Swing, The Old Barn Stands To-Day. Deep In Its Hay The Leghorn Hides A Round White Nest; And, Humming Soft On Roof And Rafter, Or Its Log-Rude Sides, Black In The Sun-Shot Loft, The Building Hornet Glides. Along Its Corn-Crib, Cautiously As Thieving Fingers, Skulks The Rat; Or In Warped Stalls Of Fragrant Timothy, Gnaws At Some Loosened Slat, Or Passes Shadowy. A Dream Of Drouth Made Audible Before Its Door, Hot, Smooth, And Shrill All Day The Locust Sings. . What Other Spell Shall Hold It, Lazier Still Than The Long Day'S, Now Tell: Dusk And The Cricket And The Strain Of Tree-Toad And Of Frog; And Stars That Burn Above The Rich West'S Ribb'D Stain; And Dropping Pasture Bars, And Cow-Bells Up The Lane. Night And The Moon And Katydid, And Leaf-Lisp Of The Wind-Touched Boughs; And Mazy Shadows That The Fireflies Thrid; And Sweet Breath Of The Cows, And The Lone Owl Here Hid.