 | The bells |  |
85
V.
NOON.
He's chosen the broad zenith for his seat;His brow is sweaty, and his sultry breath
Fills the sick town, and in the crowded street
Men and o'er-ladened horses sink in death;
In rocky, dewless pastures, close beneath
The arms of trees the drowsy cattle meet;
The grain grows dry within its heated sheath;
Wild lilacs droop upon the sunny steep,
And winds in knolls have stol'n away to sleep.
A sense of something heavy spheres the air—
As if the earth lay in a horrid trance,
While through the still blue heaven with a stare
The Noon-king looketh, scorching with his glance,
Proud as a lion glaring from his lair.
| The bells | |