White, Glaring, Still

 August
by Lizette Woodworth Reese

 No wind, no bird. The river flames like brass.
 On either side, smitten as with a spell
 Of silence, brood the fields. In the deep grass,
 Edging the dusty roads, lie as they fell
 Handfuls of shriveled leaves from tree and bush.
 But 'long the orchard fence and at the gate,
 Thrusting their saffron torches through the hush,
 Wild lilies blaze, and bees hum soon and late.
 Rust-colored the tall straggling brier, not one
 Rose left. The spider sets its loom up there
 Close to the roots, and spins out in the sun
 A silken web from twig to twig. The air
 Is full of hot rank scents. Upon the hill
 Drifts the noon's single cloud, white, glaring, still.