Afternoon.

Small, shapeless drifts of cloud     Sail slowly northward in the soft-hued sky,         With blur half-tints and rolling summits bright,     By the late sun caressed; slight hazes shroud         All things afar; shineth each leaf anigh         With its own warmth and light.         O'erblown by Southland airs,     The summer landscape basks in utter peace:         In lazy streams the lazy clouds are seen;     Low hills, broad meadows, and large, clear-cut squares         Of ripening corn-fields, rippled by the breeze,         With shifting shade and sheen.         Hark! and you may not hear     A sound less soothing than the rustle cool         Of swaying leaves, the steady wiry drone     Of unseen crickets, sudden chirpings clear         Of happy birds, the tinkle of the pool,         Chafed by a single stone.         What vague, delicious dreams,     Born of this golden hour of afternoon,         And air balm-freighted, fill the soul with bliss,     Transpierced like yonder clouds with lustrous gleams,         Fantastic, brief as they, and, like them, spun         Of gilded nothingness!         All things are well with her.     'T is good to be alive, to see the light         That plays upon the grass, to feel (and sigh     With perfect pleasure) the mild breezes stir         Among the garden roses, red and white,         With whiffs of fragrancy.         There is no troublous thought,     No painful memory, no grave regret,         To mar the sweet suggestions of the hour:     The soul, at peace, reflects the peace without,         Forgetting grief as sunset skies forget         The morning's transient shower.