III.

The orchards are yellow and solitary, The winds beat down their hands; The sunlight is sad and the moonlight is dreary, The hum of the country is lonesome and weary, And the bees go by in bands To other happier lands. The grasses are rotting in walk and in bower; The orchards smell dank and rank As a chamber where lay for a lonely hour A corpse unclad in the taper's glower, Chill, white, and lank. So the bees go by in murmurous bands, Drowsily wand'ring to happier lands Where the lilies draggle the bank.