Spans with its shimmering arch the flowery zone;
In all God's earth there is no gentler scene,
And yet I hear that awesome monotone;
Above the circling midge's piping thrill,
And the long droning of the questing bee,
Above all sultry summer sounds it still
Mutters its ceaseless menaces to me.
And as I listen all the garden fair
Darkens to plains of misery and death,
And looking past the roses I see there