Sara Teasdale: In a Garden

In a Garden

The world is resting without sound or motion,  Behind the apple tree the sun goes down Painting with fire the spires and the windows  In the elm-shaded town.
Beyond the calm Connecticut the hills lie  Silvered with haze as fruits still fresh with bloom, The swallows weave in flight across the zenith  On an aerial loom.
Into the garden peace comes back with twilight,  Peace that since noon had left the purple phlox, The heavy-headed asters, the late roses  And swaying hollyhocks.
For at high-noon I heard from this same garden  The far-off murmur as when many come; Up from the village surged the blind and beating  Red music of a drum;
And the hysterical sharp fife that shattered  The brittle autumn air, While they came, the young men marching  Past the village square. . . .
Across the calm Connecticut the hills change  To violet, the veils of dusk are deep — Earth takes her children's many sorrows calmly  And stills herself to sleep.