Summer Heat

The very flagstones of the street 
Are hot beneath the passers' feet,
The languid lilies droop their heads,
The pollen that the larkspur sheds 
Is heavy on the heavy bee,
And dazed with too much light is he. 
The torch-flowers in the garden beds 
Have quenched their glowing golds and reds; 
The swans are hidden in the reeds, 
And if Pan pipes no Dryad heeds. 
They all are sleeping in the brake — 
Sleeping so sound they will not wake 
For any goat-hoofed piper's sake. 

The balsam snaps her wingèd seeds 
On every little wind that flies 
Listless beneath unshadowed skies. 
The heart of man is overweighed 
With brightness: he desires the shade 
And whispering waters lapsing down 
Towards the sea where all dreams fade 
In that green depth where sailors drown.