JULY. 
‘ID OW is there silence through the summer woods, 
1 1 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, sun-stricken rocks, the noontide long, 
Or, ’mid the coolness of dim-lighted caves, 
Sway in a trance of vague deliciousness. 
Edward Dow den. 
The woods are hushed, their music is no more. 
