The summer noon, than midnight's self more still,
Lies like a weight of sleep upon the world.
The standards of the clouds are drooped and furled
Unmoving, and the sunbeam hath no will
With stream or grove to play. Deep musings fill
His soul, who all alone in some vast wood
Looks out upon the beaming solitude,
Listening for any sound of bird or rill,
In vain. Come, evening, with thy blest alloy
Of freshness, and day's dazzling wrongs repair.
Come, like contentment after too much joy;
Image of all our state can safely bear,
Peace, and the finer forms of pleasure coy,
O come, with dew, with moonlight, and sweet air.