Summer in the Indian Plains
THE fiery feet of Summer march in haste
Across the fields swept bare of ripened grain,
And all the garden lies a barren waste
Beneath her scorching steps, athirst for rain.
The red rose blossom and the white rose lie
In one pale scentless ruin side by side,
Poor faded queens, that erst in rivalry
For beauty's crown each with the other vied.
With perfume honey-sweet from blossoming trees
The heavy air turns faint before the noon,
And stagnant odours load the evening breeze
Which 'neath their weight dies ere the day be done;
While languidly, with long stems fresh and cool,
The lotus lilies lie upon the pool.
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