Its Rotting Fence One Scarcely Sees Through Sumac And Wild Blackberries, Thick Elder And The Bramble-Rose, Big Ox-Eyed Daisies Where The Bees Hang Droning In Repose. The Little Lizards Lie All Day Gray On Its Rocks Of Lichen-Gray; And, Insect-Ariels Of The Sun, The Butterflies Make Bright Its Way, Its Path Where Chipmunks Run. A Lyric There The Redbird Lifts, While, Twittering, The Swallow Drifts 'Neath Wandering Clouds Of Sleepy Cream, In Which The Wind Makes Azure Rifts, O'Er Dells Where Wood-Doves Dream. The Brown Grasshoppers Rasp And Bound! Mid Weeds And Briers That Hedge It Round; And In Its Grass-Grown Ruts, Where Stirs The Harmless Snake, Mole-Crickets Sound Their Faery Dulcimers. At Evening, When The Sad West Turns To Lonely Night A Cheek That Burns, The Tree-Toads In The Wild-Plum Sing; And Ghosts Of Long-Dead Flowers And Ferns The Winds Wake, Whispering.