SUNSET
IN the clear dusk upon the fields below, The blossoming thorn-bush, white, and spare, and tall, Seems carved of ivory 'gainst the dark wall: Shut from the sunset sharp the farm-roofs show. But here upon this height, the straggling hedge Burns in the wind, and is astir with bees; The little pool beneath the willow trees, Yellow as topaz flames from edge to edge; A line of light the deserted highway glows. Odors like sounds down the rich air do pass, Spice from each bough, musk from the brier rose Dropping its five sweet petals on the grass. Swallows are whirring black against the blaze; I hear the creek laugh out from pebbly ways.