WHY do I make no poems? Good my friend 
Now is there silence through the summer woods, 
In whose green depths and lawny solitudes 
The light is dreaming; voicings clear ascend 
Now from no hollow where glad rivulets wend, 
But murmurings low of inarticulate moods, 
Softer than stir of unfledged cushat broods, 
Breathe, till o'er drowsed the heavy flower-heads bend. 
Now sleep the crystal and heart-charmed waves 
Round white, sunstricken rocks the noontide long, 
Or 'mid the coolness of dim lighted caves 
Sway in a trance of vague deliciousness; 
And I,--I am too deep in joy's excess 
For the imperfect impulse of a song.