The heat has come, too soon, too fierce and dry,
No time to taste the clean, brisk breeze of spring,
To watch the songbird fledglings learn to fly,
The fleeting season’s gone, bird on the wing.
Bright water rushing, tumbling down the fields
Is silent now and sluggish in the sun,
The racing torrent, fed by rainstorm yields
To drying mud, its youthful mad course run.
Already meadow flowers fade to seed,
Hay making trembles in the dusty air,
I fear for those who hide, too young to heed
The machine’s voice, in meadow’s flimsy lair.
The wheel turns, beauty gone, will summer bring
More soft nights when the nightingales will sing?