Because he dreams in lonely places?

He is not desolate, but only

Sees, where ye cannot, hidden faces.

[Pg 12]

[Pg 12]

HEAT.

From plains that reel to southward, dim,

The road runs by me white and bare;

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 cart's side the wagoner

Is slouching slowly at his ease,

Half-hidden in the windless blur

Of white dust puffing to his knees.

This wagon on the height above,

From sky to sky on either hand,

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