Heat.

From plains that reel to southward, dim,     The road runs by me white and bare;     Up the steep hill it seems to swim     Beyond, and melt into the glare.     Upward half way, or it may be     Nearer the summit, slowly steals     A hay-cart, moving dustily     With idly clacking wheels.     By his cart's side the wagoner     Is slouching slowly at his ease,     Half-hidden in the windless blur     Of white dust puffing to his knees.     This wagon on the height above,     From sky to sky on either hand,     Is the sole thing that seems to move     In all the heat-held land.     Beyond me in the fields the sun     Soaks in the grass and hath his will;     I count the marguerites one by one;     Even the buttercups are still.     On the brook yonder not a breath     Disturbs the spider or the midge.     The water-bugs draw close beneath     The cool gloom of the bridge.     Where the far elm-tree shadows flood     Dark patches in the burning grass,     The cows, each with her peaceful cud,     Lie waiting for the heat to pass.     From somewhere on the slope near by     Into the pale depth of the noon     A wandering thrush slides leisurely     His thin revolving tune.     In intervals of dreams I hear     The cricket from the droughty ground;     The grass-hoppers spin into mine ear     A small innumerable sound.     I lift mine eyes sometimes to gaze:     The burning sky-line blinds my sight:     The woods far off are blue with haze;     The hills are drenched in light.     And yet to me not this or that     Is always sharp or always sweet;     In the sloped shadow of my hat     I lean at rest, and drain the heat;     Nay more, I think some blessd power     Hath brought me wandering idly here:     In the full furnace of this hour     My thoughts grow keen and clear.