6o 
July. 
The feathers, dropped from moor-hen’s wing, 
Which to the water's surface cling, 
Are steadfast, and as heavy seem 
As stones beneath them in the stream ; 
Hawkweed and groundsel's fanny downs 
Unruffled keep their seedy crowns ; 
And in the over-heated air 
Not one light thing is floating there, 
Save that, to the earnest eye, 
The restless heat seems twittering by. 
Noon swoons beneath the heat it made, 
And flowers e'en within the shade, 
Until the sun slopes in the West. 
Like weary traveller, glad to rest 
On pillowed clouds of many hues, 
Then Nature's voice its joy renews ; 
And checkered field and grassy plain 
Hum, with their Summer-songs again, 
A requiem to the day's decline, 
Whose setting sunbeams coolly shine, 
As welcome to day's feeble powers 
As falling dews to thirsty flowers. 
John Clare. 
