Noontide.

Bethlehem is far away.

A dusty roadway twists and turns
And then sweeps backwards on its way.
A mid-day sun is here and burns
All green things brown, all brown things grey.
To tune of bark and crack of whip
Down the white road go many sheep
Dirty of coat and slack of lip,
With dazed red eyes half wild for sleep.
The heat is bending bush and tree,
The birds are languid as the flowers.
Loved clematis has bent the knee
Humbled before the marching hours.
Red rata too has lost her gleam
And shines but faintly midst the leaves;
The creek's a muddy sluggish stream
O'er which a listless willow grieves.