The Old Byway, by Madison Cawein

  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.