William Green

FAR off the rook, tired by the midday beam,

Caws lazily this summer afternoon;

The butterflies, with wandering up and down

O’er flower-bright marsh and meadow, wearied seem;

With vacant gaze, lost in a waking dream,

We, listless, on the busy insects pore,

In rapid dance uncertain, darting o’er

The smooth-spread surface of the tepid stream.

The air is slothful, and will scarce convey

Soft sounds of idle waters to the ear:

In brightly-dim obscurity appear

The distant hills which skirt the landscape gay;

While restless fancy owns th’ unnerving sway

In visions often changed, but nothing clear.