August . . . In high, dry grass, Arm crooked, Head cupped, Ear sunk, Flank pressed Into earth. Eyes are Two field-mice, Scurrying, scurrying Through grass-tips, Sniffing shadows, Nibbling sun-glints, Darting back Into sleep holes. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A PORTRAIT by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING HOLY CROSS DAY by ROBERT BROWNING FOR THAT HE LOOKED NOT UPON HER by GEORGE GASCOIGNE THE SEA AND THE SKYLARK by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS NO LONGER COULD I DOUBT HIM TRUE by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR ON A BOY'S FIRST READING OF THE PLAY OF 'KING HENRY THE FIFTH' by SILAS WEIR MITCHELL |