This is the voice of high midsummer's heat. The rasping vibrant clamour soars and shrills O'er all the meadowy range of shadeless hills, As if a host of giant cicadae beat The cymbals of their wings with tireless feet, Or brazen grasshoppers with triumphing note From the long swath proclaimed the fate that smote The clover and timothy-tops and meadowsweet.
1893 'The Mowing'.
When Winter scourged the meadow and the hill And in the withered leafage worked his will, Then water shrank, and shuddered, and stood still, Then built himself a magic house of glass, Irised with memories of flowers and grass, Wherein to sit and watch the fury pass.Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
And I turned and fled, like a soul pursued, From the white, inviolate solitude.Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts