I am weary,
Weary of bracing myself against the sunís hot hand;
I am weary, and I dream of cool places . . . .
I see a grassy couch
Under a canopy of leaves;
A reedy river murmers by,
Crooning an old, old melody
Tuned to a long-forgotten scale,
Made when the world was young.
Rolled to the riverís edge the hills lie fast asleep;
Pale stars slip oíer their ledge and sink into the deep:
Down in the deep they sink to slumbrous peace,
Down in the deep they drink the water of peace;
In the quiet deep they quench their fires in sleep
And drown in a cool green dream.
The sun insists his burning hand upon my head;
I am weary, and I dream of cool places.
1867 - 1953