No sound of insect or marauding bee;
All sleep in woods that droop beneath the sun,
Whose light, through foliage strained, its way has won
To emerald moss with bosom velvety.

Piercing the dusky dome bright Noon roams free,
And o'er my lashes half with sleep foredone
Bids myriad glints and gleamings furtive run,
That lace the shade with vermeil tracery.

Toward fiery gauze the rays inweave now hies
The fragile swarm of gorgeous butterflies,
Mad with sap's perfume and the luminous beams;

And tremulous fingers on each thread I set,
As in gold meshes of this tenuous net,
Hunter of harmonies, I prison my dreams.