XVIII

3 0 00

XVIII

Noon

Noon! and in the garden bower

The hot air quivers o’er the grass

The little lake is smooth as glass

And still so heavily the hour

Drags, that scarce the proudest flower

Pressed upon its burning bed

Has strength to lift a languid head:

—Rose and fainting violet

By the water’s margin set

Swoon and sink as they were dead

Though their weary leaves be fed

With the foam-drops of the pool

Where it trembles dark and cool

Wrinkled by the fountain spraying

O’er it. And the honey-bee

Hums his drowsy melody

And wanders in his course a-straying

Through the sweet and tangled glade

With his golden mead o’erladen

Where beneath the pleasant shade

Of the darkling boughs a maiden

—Milky limb and fiery tress,

All at sweetest random laid⁠—

Slumbers, drunken with the excess

Of the noontide’s loveliness.