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Robert Laurence Binyon - August
Work rating: Low

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.
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