'Mid weeds and briars that hedge it round;
And in its grass-grown ruts,—where stirs
The harmless snake,—mole-crickets sound;
O'erhead the locust whirs.
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 wind wakes, whispering.