Classic Poem

Now doth sweet Summer dream her deepest dream:
With full-fringed lids half-closed against the sun,
And thirsting lips, she nods beside the stream,
Along whose silent course no waters run.

Full wearily she stretcheth, now, her limbs;
Anon her breast is stirred with languid sighs;
Lulled by the echoing of slow forest hymns,
She draws the shadows with her drowsing eyes.

While, all above, her busy hands have made
A woven covert of the boughs that bend,
And on the painted leaves her touch hath laid
A thousand tints of green that softly blend.