July

British|Edwar Thomas

Naught moves but clouds, and in the glassy lake

Their doubles and shadow of boat

The boat itself stirs only when I break

This drowse of heat solitude afloat

To prove if what I see be bird or mote,

Or learn if the shore woods be awake.

Long hours since dawn grew, —spread, —and passed on high

And deep below, —I have watched the cool reeds hung

Over images more cool in imaged sky:

Nothing there was worth thinking of so long;

All that the ring-dove say, far leaves among,

Brims my mind with content thus still to lie.