In a Garden

    The world is resting without sound or motion, Behind the apple tree the sun goes down Painting with fire the spires¹ and the windows In the elm-shaded town.

    Beyond the calm Connecticut the hills lie Silvered with haze² as fruits still fresh with bloom, The swallows weave in flight across the zenith On an aerial loom³.

    Into the garden peace comes back with twilight⁴, Peace that since noon had left the purple phlox, The heavy-headed asters, the late roses And swaying hollyhocks. For at high-noon I heard from this same garden The far-off murmur⁵ as when many come； Up from the village surged the blind and beating Red music of a drum；

    And the hysterical⁶ sharp fife that shattered The brittle⁷ autumn air, While they came, the young men marching Past the village square. . . .

    Across the calm Connecticut the hills change To violet, the veils of dusk are deep —— Earth takes her children's many sorrows calmly And stills herself to sleep.