’Twas noon in August, and the sultry heat Had driven me from sunny balcony Into the shaded hall, where spacious doors Stood open wide, and lofty windows held Their sashes up, to woo the breeze, in vain. The filmy lace that curtained them was still, And every silken tassel hung a-plumb. The maps and unframed pictures o’er the wall Gave not a rustle; only now and then Was heard the jingling sound of melting ice, Deep in a massive urn, whose silver sides With trickling dewbeads ran. The little birds, Up in their cages, perched with open beaks, And throbbing throats, upon the swaying rings, Or plashed the tepid water in their cups With eager breast. My favorite pointer lay, With lolling tongue, and rapid panting sides, Beside my chair, upon the matted floor. All things spoke heat, oppressive heat intense, Save swallows twittering up the chimney-flue, Whose hollow flutterings sounded cool alone. To find relief I seized my hat and book, And fled into the park. Along a path Of smoothest gravel, oval, curving white, Between two rows of closely shaven hedge, I passed towards a latticed summer-house; A fairy bower, built in Eastern style, With spires, and balls, and fancy trellis-work, O’er which was spread the jasmine’s leafy net, To snare the straying winds. Within I fell Upon a seat of woven cane, and fanned My streaming face in vain. The very winds Seemed to have fled, and left alone the heat To rise from parchèd lawn and scorching fields, Like trembling incense to the blazing god. The leaves upon the wan and yellow trees Hung motionless, as if of rigid steel; And e’en the feath’ry pendula of spray, With faintest oscillation, dared not wave. The withered flowers shed a hot perfume, That sickened with its fragrance; and the bees Worked lazily, as if they longed to kick The yellow burdens from their patient thighs, And rest beneath the ivy parasols. The butterflies refrained from aimless flight, And poised on blooms with gaudy, gasping wings. The fountain scarcely raised its languid jet An inch above its tube; the basin deigned A feeble ripple for its tinkling fall, And rolled the little waves with noiseless beat Against the marble side. The bright-scaled fish All huddled ’neath the jutting ledge’s shade, Where, burnished like their magnet toy types, They rose and fell as if inanimate; Or, with a restless stroke of tinted fin, Turned in their places pettishly around; While, with each move, the tiny whirlpools spun Like crystal dimples on the water’s face. The sculptured lions crouched upon the edge, With gaping jaws, and stony, fixèd eyes, That ever on the pool glared thirstily. Deep in the park, beneath the trees, were grouped The deer, their noses lowered to the earth,