MIDSUMMER DREAMS

There is a tall white weed growing at the top of this sand hill:

In the grass

It is very still.

It lifts its heavy bracts of flattened bloom

Against the sky

Hazily grey with brume.

Out over yonder boats pass

And the swallows

Flatten themselves on the grass.

The lake is silvering beneath the heat.

The wind's feet

Touch lazily each crest,

Like white gulls slow flapping

To windward.

One rose white cloud slowly disengages, loosening itself,

And stands

Above the larkspur-coloured water:

Like Dione's daughter

Braiding up her wet hair with her pale, hands.