by Frank Dempster Sherman
No leaf is stirring in the tree,
The drowsy bird forgets his tune;
The flower, forsaken by the bee,
Hangs silent in the glaring noon.
Hushed is the murmur of the stream
Whose music made the morning sweet,
And on its tranquil bosom dream
The languid lilies in the heat.
And in these cradles gently rocked
When idle eddies catch the stems,
Their gauzy wings in slumber locked,
Repose the dragon-flies like gems.
This is the golden hour of rest,
When, half his circling journey done,
Midway between the east and west
The zenith holds the eager sun.
And not until his fetters break
And fall in shadows on the ground,
Shall any slumberer awake,
Or Nature know a breath or sound.
Source:Lyrics For A Lute
Boston and New York, Houghton, Mifflin, and Company