A day of torpor in the sullen heat <br />Of Summer's passion: In the sluggish stream <br />The panting cattle lave their lazy feet, <br />With drowsy eyes, and dream. <br /> <br />Long since the winds have died, and in the sky <br />There lives no cloud to hint of Nature's grief; <br />The sun glares ever like an evil eye, <br />And withers flower and leaf. <br /> <br />Upon the gleaming harvest-field remote <br />The thresher lies deserted, like some old <br />Dismantled galleon that hangs afloat <br />Upon a sea of gold. <br /> <br />The yearning cry of some bewildered bird <br />Above an empty nest, and truant boys <br />Along the river's shady margin heard-- <br />A harmony of noise-- <br /> <br />A melody of wrangling voices blent <br />With liquid laughter, and with rippling calls <br />Of piping lips and thrilling echoes sent <br />To mimic waterfalls. <br /> <br />And through the hazy veil the atmosphere <br />Has draped about the gleaming face of Day, <br />The sifted glances of the sun appear <br />In splinterings of spray. <br /> <br />The dusty highway, like a cloud of dawn, <br />Trails o'er the hillside, and the passer-by, <br />A tired ghost in misty shroud, toils on <br />His journey to the sky. <br /> <br />And down across the valley's drooping sweep, <br />Withdrawn to farthest limit of the glade, <br />The forest stands in silence, drinking deep <br />Its purple wine of shade. <br /> <br />The gossamer floats up on phantom wing; <br />The sailor-vision voyages the skies <br />And carries into chaos everything <br />That freights the weary eyes: <br /> <br />Till, throbbing on and on, the pulse of heat <br />Increases--reaches--passes fever's height, <br />And Day sinks into slumber, cool and sweet, <br />Within the arms of Night.<br /><br />James Whitcomb Riley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/august-11/
