Above the river, heavy with summer, air 
Hangs sleepily, 
Where in the embrace of afternoon 
We lie, dumb as that air with our delight. 
The grass is good to smell: 
We suck the fresh 
White ends of it, and this green place 
Seems pleasanter for the taste. 
Below, their shoutings half song, boys 
Fling wild through the water; far away 
A ripple gleams: laugh of a hidden 
Child at play. And after, 
Stillness is pointed by a stir in the leaves, 
While through the leaves the sky 
Blazes, intolerably blue. 
Golden the haze is, from whose abundance we weave 
A summer fugue: 
Music that grieves for nothing. 
Quietly 
Day fails, the grass darkens. 
A widening hush 
Allows barely the shadow of an alas. 
We stay only to watch the wimpling river flowing greyly on.