August.

A day of torpor in the sullen heat             Of Summer's passion: In the sluggish stream         The panting cattle lave their lazy feet,             With drowsy eyes, and dream.         Long since the winds have died, and in the sky             There lives no cloud to hint of Nature's grief;         The sun glares ever like an evil eye,             And withers flower and leaf.         Upon the gleaming harvest-field remote             The thresher lies deserted, like some old         Dismantled galleon that hangs afloat             Upon a sea of gold.         The yearning cry of some bewildered bird             Above an empty nest, and truant boys         Along the river's shady margin heard -             A harmony of noise -         A melody of wrangling voices blent             With liquid laughter, and with rippling calls         Of piping lips and trilling echoes sent             To mimic waterfalls.         And through the hazy veil the atmosphere             Has draped about the gleaming face of Day,         The sifted glances of the sun appear             In splinterings of spray.         The dusty highway, like a cloud of dawn,             Trails o'er the hillside, and the passer-by,         A tired ghost in misty shroud, toils on             His journey to the sky.         And down across the valley's drooping sweep,             Withdrawn to farthest limit of the glade,         The forest stands in silence, drinking deep             Its purple wine of shade.         The gossamer floats up on phantom wing;             The sailor-vision voyages the skies         And carries into chaos everything             That freights the weary eyes:         Till, throbbing on and on, the pulse of heat             Increases - reaches - passes fever's height,         And Day sinks into slumber, cool and sweet,             Within the arms of Night.