that reel to southward, dim,
The road runs by me white and
Up the steep hill it seems to swim
Beyond, and melt into the glare.
Upward half way, or it may be
Nearer the summit, slowly steals
A hay-cart, moving dustily
With idly clacking wheels.
By his cartís
side the wagoner
Is slouching slowly at his ease,
Half-hidden in the windless blur
Of white dust puffing to his
This wagon on the height above,
From sky to sky on either hand,
Is the sole thing that seems to move
In all the heat-held land.
in the fields the sun
Soaks in the grass and hath
I count the marguerites one by one;
Even the buttercups are still.
On the brook yonder not a breath
Disturbs the spider at the midge.
The water-bugs draw close beneath
The cool gloom of the bridge.
far elm-tree shadows flood
Dark patches in the burning
The cows, each with her peaceful cud,
Lie waiting for the heat to
From somewhere on the slope near by
Into the pale depth of the noon
A wandering thrush slides leisurely
His thin revolving tune.
of dreams I hear
The cricket from the droughty
The grass-hoppers spin into mine ear
A small innumerable sound.
I lift my eyes somewhat to gaze:
The burning sky-line blinds
The woods far off are blue with haze:
The hills are drenched in light.
And yet to
me not this or that
Is always sharp or always sweet;
In the sloped shadow of my hat
I lean at rest, and drain the
Nay more, I think some blessed power
Hath brought me wandering idly
In the full furnace of this hour
My thoughts grow keen and clear.