It must be summer: but of such a calm Doth Winter weave his dream of cloaking snow. Of attar'd airs that are, no air's ablow; And yet from somewhere, as it were a balm, Blows incense slowly. Slowly, like a psalm Or slowly-said responses, slips the stream: A slim and silvery minnow does it seem, 'Mid grasses grasping, in the Meadow's palm. No bird need sing to-day, and no bird sings: This stillness is enough: it is to me The muted prelude to Eternity; A summing up of hushed and ended things; The balancing of Nature's books, who creeps Close to a stone, and in her own shade sleeps. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...RAIN ON A GRAVE by THOMAS HARDY FOUR PRELUDES ON PLAYTHINGS OF THE WIND by CARL SANDBURG GRAY MOOD by MARJORIE AKERMAN B. DEATH AT DAYBREAK by ANNE REEVE ALDRICH THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN |