From plains that reel to southward, dim,
The road runs by me white and bare;
Up the steep hill it seems to
Beyond, and melt into the glare.
Upward half way, or it may
Nearer the summit, slowly stealsA hay-cart, moving
With idly clacking wheels.
By his cart's side the
Is slouching slowly at his ease,
Half-hidden in the windless
Of white dust puffing to his knees.
This wagon on the height above,
From sky to sky on either hand,
Is the sole thing that seems to
In all the heat-held land.
Beyond me in the fields the
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
Disturbs the spider at the midge.
The water-bugs draw close
The cool gloom of the bridge.
Where the far elm-tree shadows
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
Into the pale depth of the noonA wandering thrush slides
His thin revolving tune.
In intervals of dreams I
The cricket from the droughty ground;
The grass-hoppers spin into mine earA small innumerable sound.
I lift my eyes somewhat to gaze:
The burning sky-line blinds my sight:
The woods far off are blue with haze:
The hills are drenched in light.
And yet to me not this or
Is always sharp or always sweet;
In the sloped shadow of my hatI lean at rest, and drain the heat;
Nay more,
I think some blessed
Hath brought me wandering idly here:
In the full furnace of this
My thoughts grow keen and clear.
