In drooping leaves of the plane <br />Hangs blue the early heat; <br />Stirless, a delicate shade <br />Sleeps on the parching street. <br /> <br />I wander this listless morning <br />By the banks of the dazzling river; <br />On the hot stones lean, where toward me <br />Lights from the water quiver. <br /> <br />And clasping hands upon eyes, <br />I plunge my thought in a dream <br />Of days when the sharp air stung <br />And the ice crushed cold in the stream; <br /> <br />Vainly! on body and mind <br />Has the tyrant sun his will: <br />And to me, on the hot stone leaning, <br />The city is faint and still, <br /> <br />Is faint as listening sands, <br />Where, awed by the heavy calm <br />Of the desert heaven, listens, <br />For ever alone, the palm.<br /><br />Robert Laurence Binyon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/august-17/
