In the parching August wind,
	Cornfields bow the head,
	Sheltered in round valley depths,
	On low hills outspread.

Christina G. Rossetti.    

	Dead is the air, and still! the leaves of the locust and walnut
	Lazily hang from the boughs, inlaying their intricate outlines
	Rather on space than the sky—on a tideless expansion of slumber.

Bayard Taylor.