Lush Green The Grass That Grows Between The Willows Of The Bottom-Land; Verged By The Careless Water, Tall And Green, The Brown-Topped Cat-Tails Stand. The Cows Come Gently Here To Browse, Slow Through The Great-Leafed Sycamores; You Hear A Dog Bark From A Low-Roofed House With Cedars Round Its Doors. Then All Is Quiet As The Wings Of The High Buzzard Floating There; Anon A Woman'S High-Pitched Voice That Sings An Old Camp-Meeting Air. A Flapping Cock That Crows; And Then - Heard Drowsy Through The Rustling Corn - A Flutter, And The Cackling Of A Hen Within A Hay-Sweet Barn. How Still Again! No Water Stirs; No Wind Is Heard; Although The Weeds Are Waved A Little; And From Silk-Filled Burrs Drift By A Few Soft Seeds. So Drugged With Sleep And Dreams, That You Expect To See Her Gliding By, - Hummed Round Of Bees, Through Blossoms Spilling Dew, - The Spirit Of July.