William Wilfred Campbell (1861–1918)

THOU languid August noon,

When all the slopes are sunny;

When with jocund, dreamy tune,

The bees are in the honey

When with purple flowers,

A-flaming in the sun,

The drowsy hours

Thread, one by one,

The golden pleasaunces.

Then is heart’s musing time,

Then, of all the seasons,

Old Earth for inward rhyme

Is full of golden reasons;—

Then the ripening gourd,

The sun-kissed garden wall,

The purpling hoard,

The flocks that call

Adown the distances.

Forgo the saddening tear,

Thou Month without alloy;

To younger seasons of the year

Resign the flag of joy;

But thou, be what thou art,

Full brooding to the brim

Of dreams apart

And purlieus dim

Of leafy silences.