The grass, with its low insect-tones, appears
As murmuring in its sleep. This butterfly
Seems as if loth to stir, so lazily
It flutters by. In fitful starts, and stops,
The locust sings. The grasshopper breaks out
In brief, harsh strains, amid its pausing chirps.
The beetle, glistening in its sable mail,
Slow climbs the clover-tops, and e’en the ant
Darts round less eagerly.
* * * * *