Is the sole thing that seems to move

In all the heat-held land.

Beyond me in the fields the sun

Soaks in the grass and hath his will;

I count the marguerites one by one;

Even the buttercups are still.

On the brook yonder not a breath

Disturbs the spider or the midge.

The water-bugs draw close beneath

The cool gloom of the bridge.

[Pg 13]

Where the far elm-tree shadows flood

Dark patches in the burning grass,

The cows, each with her peaceful cud,

Lie waiting for the heat to pass.

From somewhere on the slope near by

Into the pale depth of the noon

A wandering thrush slides leisurely

His thin revolving tune.

In intervals of dreams I hear

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