Loud the wild heart of any Dryad fleet,
Hearing, she girded her warm side afraid!
For where, against yon hourly-growing wall,
Dull-red, the ailantus-blossoms brighter show,
A little while his weariness forgot,
Outstretching in a chosen shadow small,
With hot wet forehead on his lax arm low,
Swart Labor sleeps, without whom thou wert not!