NOON.

No ripple stirs the water,

No song-bird wakes the grove,

Calm noon-tide sways his sceptre,

And hushes even love.

On earth the sun-god bending

Poureth his wondrous store;

The soft-tongued tide, advancing,

Laps the unconscious shore.

The long, low isle of marsh-land

Stretches in weary waste,

By sloping sand-banks guarded,

By winding weeds embraced.

Comes clearly from the open

The plash of distant oars,—

Over the rocky headland

The snow-white sea-gull soars.

I see as if through dream-clouds,

I hear from far away.

The scorched air breathes its opiate,

The drowsy fancies stay;

I have no hopes or longings,

I scarce can feel your kiss,—

For thought, and joy and worship,

Another hour than this!