Poem by Edward Dowden

In July

WHY do I make no poems? Good my friend
Now is there silence through the summer woods,
In whose green depths and lawny solitudes
The light is dreaming; voicings clear ascend
Now from no hollow where glad rivulets wend,
But murmurings low of inarticulate moods,
Softer than stir of unfledged cushat broods,
Breathe, till o'erdrowsed the heavy flower-heads bend.
Now sleep the crystal and heart-charmed waves
Round white, sunstricken rocks the noontide long,
Or 'mid the coolness of dim lighted caves
Sway in a trance of vague deliciousness;
And I,--I am too deep in joy's excess
For the imperfect impulse of a song. 

1. In the Galleries
2. On the Heights
3. The Wanderer
4. “La Révélation par le Désert”
5. A Child’s Noonday Sleep

Henry Newbolt In July ("His beauty bore no token")

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