THE hour leans wearily against the earth;
And in the meadow
Silver tentacles of heat
Grope downward through the trees
And beneath the cool stones,
                                To
Catch the minutes sleeping
And the hour immotile in the sun.

Then a wisp of air awakes
And slithers through the grass:
A cautious sound
To test the dry enchantment;
While overhead the bold ascension
Of a bird in long and cool patterns.

Thus-the wizardry is broken!

A dragonfly appears
In bright designs above the meadow,
Weaving a secret kabala with its wings
To turn the solar magic.