The very spirit of summer breathes to-day, 
Here where I sun me in a dreamy mood, 
And laps the sultry leas, and seems to brood 
Tenderly o'er those hazed hills far away. 
The air is fragrant with the new-mown hay, 
And drowsed with hum of myriad flies pursued 
By twittering martins. All yon hillside wood 
Is drowned in sunshine till its green looks grey. 
No scrap of cloud is in the still blue sky, 
Vaporous with heat, from which the foreground trees 
Stand out--each leaf cut sharp. The whetted scythe 
Makes rustic music for me as I lie, 
Watching the gambols of the children blythe, 
Drinking the season's sweetness to the lees.