Classic Poem

Some siren drew
Our charmed canoe
To shores of green 'neath skies of blue
In velvet atmosphere —
The heat extreme,
The sun's fierce gleam,
Forbids us paddling up the stream
So rest we idly here.

Hot waning June
Melts to a swoon
The stillness of this still lagoon
Wherein becalmed we lie,
Our tiny sail
Lifts up her pale
Arms longing that some idle gale
Perchance may wander by.

We lie where dim
Still shadows skim
The rushes on the river's rim
That harbour iris rare,
We whistle low,
Subdued and slow
To call the truant winds to blow
And break the silent air.

Some goddess brings
Upon her wings
The breeze desired as near she swings
Her pinions floating past,
With creaking sound
The boom sways round,
Fresh wind our canvas now has found
It fills — we move at last.