In the Hammock

There is a tremor in the windless air
That scarce may stir the leaves above my head;
The weariness of sunlight lies like lead
On the gold-green of grasses, and the glare
Of scarlet flowers burns all the flower-beds bare
Some of that blinding splendor of sheer red;
And I methinks am living and not dead,
But other life there seems not anywhere.
Yet somewhere surely are the mighty throngs
Of those that toil and sorrow and are wise
More than my thought can ever understand;
Less seem they than the least of dreamy songs
In the shut book of songs unread that lies
Under the hammock, fallen from my hand.
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