Classic Poem

Despotic and discoloured and obeyed,
Summer, a king who tortures lazily,
Stretches himself within the white-hot sky
And yawns. The labourer slumbers in the shade.

The skylark sings not, resting in the glade:
No cloud or breath or aught that comes between
Yon azure so implacably serene
Where of the silence is the stillness made.

The cicales in the heavy torpor sleep:
The half-dried rivulets no longer leap
Along their narrow course that pebbles strow:

Incessantly rotating in the air
Gleam shining moires that glistening ebb and flow...
Yellow and black, wasps hover here and there.