A deep, delicious hush in earth and sky — A gracious lull—since, from its wakening, The morn has been a feverish, restless thing In which the pulse of Summer ran too high And riotous, as though its heart went nigh To bursting with delights past uttering: Now—as an o`erjoyed child may cease to sing All falteringly at play, with drowsy eye Draining the pictures of a fairy-tale To brim his dreams with—there comes o`er the day A loathful silence wherein all sounds fail Like loitering sounds of some roundelay . . . No wakeful effort longer may avail — The wand waves, and the dozer sinks away.SourceThe script ran 0.012 seconds.
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