WHY do I make no poems? Good my friend <br />Now is there silence through the summer woods, <br />In whose green depths and lawny solitudes <br />The light is dreaming; voicings clear ascend <br />Now from no hollow where glad rivulets wend, <br />But murmurings low of inarticulate moods, <br />Softer than stir of unfledged cushat broods, <br />Breathe, till o'er drowsed the heavy flower-heads bend. <br />Now sleep the crystal and heart-charmed waves <br />Round white, sunstricken rocks the noontide long, <br />Or 'mid the coolness of dim lighted caves <br />Sway in a trance of vague deliciousness; <br />And I,--I am too deep in joy's excess <br />For the imperfect impulse of a song.<br /><br />Edward Dowden<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-july/
