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...A BOOK OF AIRS SONG 18 by THOMAS CAMPION THE RIDDLERS by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE THE SCARE-FIRE by ROBERT HERRICK THE BOYS by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES LIKE A LAVEROCK IN THE LIFT by JEAN INGELOW |