What wind now in the long hot summer morning Sends the pine boughs plunging down and stirs The tall, sky-reaching firs To slow designs of darkness? What wind now Is a foam and a surge of silver over the grass While the mowers pause to let the coolness pass Against their dripping shoulders, through their hair?
With the sun a brazen gong struck in the noon And the bright hills reared golden in the air,
Will the wind harvest clouds to throw a shadow Of purple coolness over the burning hills? Will it be wind that fills The meadows with a long sweet wash of sound,
Or will a throat,
Hot with sun, glad of the windy ground,
Glad of the rhythmic arms and the swinging blade,
Sing in the noon, in the wind, of the day-moon rising And of men bringing death to grass no man has made?