I

Can freckled August,--drowsing warm and blonde Beside a wheat-shock in the white-topped mead, In her hot hair the oxeyed daisies wound,-- O bird of rain, lend aught but sleepy heed To thee? when no plumed weed, no feather'd seed Blows by her; and no ripple breaks the pond, That gleams like flint between its rim of grasses, Through which the dragonfly forever passes Like splintered diamond.