JULY. 
Loud is the Summer’s busy song, 
The smallest breeze can find a tongue ; 
While insects of each tiny size 
Grow teasing with their melodies, 
Till noon burns with its blistering breath 
Around, and day lies still as death. 
The busy noise of man and brute 
Is, on a sudden, lost and mute ; 
Even the brook, that leaps along, 
Seems weary of its bubbling song, 
And, so soft its waters creep, 
Tired silence sinks in sounder sleep. 
The cricket on its bank is dumb, 
The very flies forget to hum ; 
And, save the waggon rocking round, 
The landscape sleeps without a sound ; 
The breeze is stopped, the lazy bough 
Hath not a leaf that danceth now ; 
The taller grass upon the hill 
And spiders’ threads are standing still; 
