Here is a late poem by the long-lived New Englander Robert Francis, who died in 1987, aged 86. Little known now, Francis was a superlative lyricist, though overshadowed by Frost and other contemporaries. I shall probably have more to say about him if this poem elecits any interest.
Midsummer
Twelve white cattle on the crest,
Milk-white against the chicory skies,
Six gazing south, six gazing west
With the blue distance in their eyes.
Twelve white cattle standing still.
Why should they move? There are no flies
To tease them on this wind-washed hill.
Twelve white cattle utterly at rest.
Why should they graze? They are past grazing.
They have cropped the grass, they have had their fill.
Now they stand gazing, they stand gazing.
Only the tall redtop about their knees
And the white clouds above the hill
Move in the softly moving breeze.
The cattle move not, they are still.
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