Oblivious o'er its pages droop--
And motion is beyond my power,
While breathing this hot, scorching air,
It wearies me to raise the flowers,
That lie so close beside my chair.

See stealing, wearied from their play,
The flushed and languid children come,
Saying that on so hot a day
They'd much prefer to stay at home.
Themselves upon the ground they throw,
Cheeks pillowed on each rounded arm--
And fall asleep soon, murmuring low,
And wondering "why it is so warm?"

If yonder patient sheep and kine,
Close shrinking from the sun's hot flame,
Had man's gift--"power of speech divine,"
They surely would repeat the same--
Each blade of grass, each fainting flower,
Would whisper to the shrubs and trees,
How much they longed for evening's hour,
With cooling breath and grateful breeze.




THE FALL OF THE LEAF.