A SONG OF SUMMER 



71 



is not rotted by too copious rains the 

 toil begins as soon as the lines of 

 misty green appear. In the morning, 

 when the malarial breath steams from 

 the soil, rank with dung, the ragged 

 boys crawl silently astride the rows, 

 plucking the weeds, and women too 

 sometimes, shapeless and pitiful to see. 

 Prostrate and crouched, the slow pro- 

 cession kneels, as if in supplication to 

 the sun to yield a crop, who, heedless, 

 blisters and scorches them, as day by 

 day they creep before his force, eyeing 

 the ground like the Trappist monks, 

 who each day claw the mould out with 

 their fingers, digging their own graves. 

 No flower cools the eye, no bird note 

 thrills the senses, the very crows desert 

 the onion field, and the dogs, with 

 lolling tongues, slink beside the wall. 

 O truth painter of Barbizon, this, this 

 is Toil! You gave your earth-worn 



