August

In drooping leaves of the plane Hangs blue the early heat; Stirless, a delicate shade Sleeps on the parching street. I wander this listless morning By the banks of the dazzling river; On the hot stones lean, where toward me Lights from the water quiver. And clasping hands upon eyes, I plunge my thought in a dream Of days when the sharp air stung And the ice crushed cold in the stream; Vainly! on body and mind Has the tyrant sun his will: And to me, on the hot stone leaning, The city is faint and still, Is faint as listening sands, Where, awed by the heavy calm Of the desert heaven, listens, For ever alone, the palm.