It must be summer: but of such a calm Doth Winter weave his dream of cloaking snow. Of attar'd airs that are, no air's ablow; And yet from somewhere, as it were a balm, Blows incense slowly. Slowly, like a psalm Or slowly-said responses, slips the stream: A slim and silvery minnow does it seem, 'Mid grasses grasping, in the Meadow's palm. No bird need sing to-day, and no bird sings: This stillness is enough: it is to me The muted prelude to Eternity; A summing up of hushed and ended things; The balancing of Nature's books, who creeps Close to a stone, and in her own shade sleeps. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MARY DONNELLY by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM FOR THE FALLEN (SEPTEMBER 1914) by LAURENCE BINYON SONG, FR. ERNEST MALTRAVERS by EDWARD GEORGE EARLE LYTTON BULWER-LYTTON THUS FAR by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 36 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH TO E.C. MARCHANT ESQ. by CHARLES WILLIAM BRODRIBB |