THE DYKE.
From dyke to hill-side sways the level sweep
Of all the ripened hay in mid-July;
A tideless sea of rustling melody,
Beside the river-channels of the deep.
Astray and straggling, or in broken heap,
Where birdlings flutter, dark the fences lie.
Far off, the tortuous rush-grown creek is dry,
Where looms the leaning barn like ancient keep.
Showing to heaven where his way has been,
The sounding wheel now bares what nature hides;
Drowns the low nestling cry and ruthless kills;
The rustic Neptune steering o'er the green,
With chariot music trembling to the hills,
Before whose horses' tread the grass divides.
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