Blows slimly o'er; beyond, a path-found pond
Basks flint-bright, hedged with pink-plumed pepper-grasses,
A coigne for vainest dragonflies, which glasses
Their blue in diamond.
Oft from some dusty locust, that thick weaves
With crescent pulse-pods its thin foliage gray,
Thou,—o'er the shambling lane, which past the sheaves
Of sun-tanned oats winds, red with rutty clay,
One league of rude rail-fence,—some panting day,
When each parched meadow quivering vapor grieves,