NOON

Noon like a naked sword lies on the grass,

Heavy with gold, and Time itself doth drowse;

The little stream, too indolent to pass,

Loiters below the cloudy willow boughs,

That build amid the glare a shadowy house,

And with a Paradisal freshness brims

Amid cool-rooted reeds with glossy blade;

The antic water-fly above it skims,

And cows stand shadow-like in the green shade,

Or knee-deep in the grassy glimmer wade.

The earth in golden slumber dreaming lies,

Idly abloom, and nothing sings or moves,

Nor bird, nor bee; and even the butterflies,

Languid with noon, forget their painted loves,

Nor hath the woodland any talk of doves.

Only at times a little breeze will stir,

And send a ripple o'er the sleeping stream,

Or run its fingers through the willows’ hair,

And sway the rushes momently agleam —

Then all fall back again into a dream.