One lies down in the roadside shade,
To rest his head on a stone there;

As lark-song scents the summer night,
He sleeping sees the spiral flight

Of their drops and their scaling wings;
Another turns the final blade,

Leaves his book with the fallen figs;
Leaves the shade of this canopy,

This cover of cruciform twigs,
And steps into the dusty glare;

A stark road now, this golden stair,
And no lyre or lark that sings.