The red sun sinks in veils of amethyst And through the drowsy stillness comes the drone Of distant blowers. Eerily they moan, Now near, now far, so faint that they exist As merest threads of sound; yet these persist And mingle with the engine's labored groan, The rustling of the sieves, that undertone Of rending sounds, as ruthless concaves twist And tear the sheaves; the giant drive belt's hiss— These varied rhythms are blended into this Symphony of the soil. The autumn heat Is vibrant with its half barbaric beat. And yet the blower's eerie moan remains The motif of this music of the plains. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS; OR, NATURAL THEOLOGY IN THE ISLAND by ROBERT BROWNING SONG TO THE MEN OF ENGLAND by THOMAS CAMPBELL ON COMMUNISTS; EPIGRAM by EBENEZER ELLIOTT A ROUGH RHYME ON A ROUGH MATTER; THE ENGLISH GAME LAWS by CHARLES KINGSLEY THE DEATH-BED by SIEGFRIED SASSOON VULTURES by GHALIB IBN RIBAH AL-HAJJAM THE ROAD MENDERS by LAURENCE BINYON |