A wide-spread plain of level grain,
Sun-ripened ; deep in air At azure heights slow-wheeling kites And silence everywhere,
Save where with song, low-droned and long, They reap the full-ear d grain,
Or pile it high beneath the sky And turn the ox again.
The palm-tree's gold turns grey and cold
Beneath the fading light, Back to the jheel the whirring teal Flash by, and drops the night.
R. S.R. S.