What shall we do with country quiet now? 
A motor drones insanely in the blue 
Like a bad bird in a dream. 

Hush. 
The giant plane roars 
Gently as a carrier pigeon, soon 
Drowned in the distance. 

Before the shadows have engrossed the grass 
There is a patch of sun to lie upon — 
The pale warm thing that summer sheds 
When she's ready to be gone. 
The peaceful fragrance has not passed 
From the fleece that she has worn. 
The full bough, the bush, the dreaming vine 
Vie with lush greens. To what should grief 
Open its eyes again? 

One leaf, blood-bright, stains quiet 
Like a cry.