From plains that reel to southward, dim, <br /> The road runs by me white and bare; <br /> Up the steep hill it seems to swim <br /> Beyond, and melt into the glare. <br /> Upward half-way, or it may be <br /> Nearer the summit, slowly steals <br /> A hay-cart, moving dustily <br /> With idly clacking wheels. <br /> By his cart's side the wagoner <br /> Is slouching slowly at his ease, <br /> Half-hidden in the windless blur <br /> Of white dust puffiing to his knees. <br /> This wagon on the height above, <br /> From sky to sky on either hand, <br /> Is the sole thing that seems to move <br /> In all the heat-held land. <br /> <br /> Beyond me in the fields the sun <br /> Soaks in the grass and hath his will; <br /> I count the marguerites one by one; <br /> Even the buttercups are still. <br /> On the brook yonder not a breath <br /> Disturbs the spider or the midge. <br /> The water-bugs draw close beneath <br /> The cool gloom of the bridge. <br /> <br /> Where the far elm-tree shadows flood <br /> Dark patches in the burning grass, <br /> The cows, each with her peaceful cud, <br /> Lie waiting for the heat to pass. <br /> From somewhere on the slope near by <br /> Into the pale depth of the noon <br /> A wandering thrush slides leisurely <br /> His thin revolving tune. <br /> <br /> In intervals of dreams I hear <br /> The cricket from the droughty ground; <br /> The grasshoppers spin into mine ear <br /> A small innumerable sound. <br /> I lift mine eyes sometimes to gaze: <br /> The burning sky-line blinds my sight: <br /> The woods far off are blue with haze: <br /> The hills are drenched in light. <br /> <br /> And yet to me not this or that <br /> Is always sharp or always sweet; <br /> In the sloped shadow of my hat <br /> I lean at rest, and drain the heat; <br /> Nay more, I think some blessèd power <br /> Hath brought me wandering idly here: <br /> In the full furnace of this hour <br /> My thoughts grow keen and clear.<br /><br />Archibald Lampman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/heat-2/
