Sara Teasdale — In a Garden

The world is resting without sound or motion,        &nbsp Behind the apple tree the sun goes down Painting with fire the spires and the windows        &nbsp In the elm-shaded town. Beyond the calm Connecticut the hills lie        &nbsp Silvered with haze as fruits still fresh with bloom, The swallows weave in flight across the zenith        &nbsp On an aerial loom. Into the garden peace comes back with twilight,        &nbsp Peace that since noon had left the purple phlox, The heavy-headed asters, the late roses        &nbsp And swaying hollyhocks. For at high-noon I heard from this same garden        &nbsp The far-off murmur as when many come; Up from the village surged the blind and beating        &nbsp Red music of a drum; And the hysterical sharp fife that shattered        &nbsp The brittle autumn air, While they came, the young men marching        &nbsp Past the village square. . . . Across the calm Connecticut the hills change        &nbsp To violet, the veils of dusk are deep— Earth takes her children's many sorrows calmly        &nbsp And stills herself to sleep.