Noon

Noon like a naked sword lies on the grass,
Heavy with gold, and Time itself doth drowse;
The little stream, too indolent to pass,
Loiters below the cloudy willow boughs,
That build amid the glare a shadowy house,
And with a Paradisal freshness brims
Amid cool-rooted reeds with glossy blade;
The antic water-fly above it skims,
And cows stand shadow-like in the green shade,
Or knee-deep in the grassy glimmer wade.

The earth in golden slumber dreaming lies,
Idly abloom, and nothing sings or moves,
Nor bird, nor bee; and even the butterflies,
Languid with noon, forget their painted loves,
Nor hath the woodland any talk of doves.
Only at times a little breeze will stir,
And send a ripple o'er the sleeping stream,
Or run its fingers through the willows' hair,
And sway the rushes momently agleam -
Then all fall back again into a dream.

Richard Le Gallienne

Richard Le Gallienne was an English author and poet born on January 20, 1866. Known for his lyrical poetry, he was a key figure in the literary circles of the fin de siècle. He contributed to the literary magazine 'The Yellow Book' and was involved with the Rhymers' Club, an influential group of London-based poets. His works often explored themes of beauty, love, and nature. His influence extended to both sides of the Atlantic, and he spent the latter part of his life in the United States, where he continued to write until his death on September 15, 1947.

Richard Le Gallienne

Love's Tenderness

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

A Lover's Universe

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

Snatch

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

Sorcery

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

English

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Noon.

The mid-day hour of twelve the clock counts o'er,
A sultry stillness lulls the air asleep;
The very buzz of flies is heard no more,
Nor faintest wrinkles o'er the waters creep.
Like one large sheet of glass the waters shine,
Reflecting on their face the burnt sunbeam:
The very fish their sporting play decline,
Seeking the willow-shadows 'side the stream.
And, where the hawthorn branches o'er the pool,
The little bird, forsaking song and nest,
Flutters on dripping twigs his limbs to cool,
And splashes in the stream his burning breast.
O, free from thunder, for a sudden shower,
To cherish nature in this noon-day hour!

John Clare

A Lair At Noon.

The hawthorn gently stopt the sun, beneath,
The ash above its quiv'ring shadows spread,
And downy bents, that to the air did wreathe,
Bow'd 'neath my pressure in an easy bed;
The water whirled round each stunted nook,
And sweet the splashings on the ear did swim
Of fly-bit cattle gulshing in the brook,
Nibbling the grasses on the fountain's brim:
The little minnows, driv'n from their retreat,
Still sought the shelving bank to shun the heat.
I fain had slept, but flies would buzz around;
I fain had looked calmly on the scene,
But the sweet snug retreat my search had found
Waken'd the Muse to sing the woody screen.

John Clare

Noon.

No ripple stirs the water,
No song-bird wakes the grove,
Calm noon-tide sways his sceptre,
And hushes even love.

On earth the sun-god bending
Poureth his wondrous store;
The soft-tongued tide, advancing,
Laps the unconscious shore.

The long, low isle of marsh-land
Stretches in weary waste,
By sloping sand-banks guarded,
By winding weeds embraced.

Comes clearly from the open
The plash of distant oars, -
Over the rocky headland
The snow-white sea-gull soars.

I see as if through dream-clouds,
I hear from far away.
The scorched air breathes its opiate,
The drowsy fancies stay;

I have no hopes or longings,
I scarce can feel your kiss, -
For thought, and joy and worship,
Another hour than this!

Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

Midsummer Noon.

Through shimmering skies the big clouds slowly sail;
    A faint breeze lingers in the rustling beech;
    Atop the withered oak with vagrant speech
The brawling crows call down the sleepy vale;
Unseen the glad cicadas trill their tale
    Of deep content in changeless vibrant screech,
    And where the old fence rambles out of reach,
The drowsy lizard hugs the shaded rail.
Warm odors from the hayfield wander by,
    Afar the homing reaper's noontide tune
Floats on the mellow stillness like a sigh;
    One butterfly, ghost of a vanished June,
Soars dimly where in realms of purple sky
    Dips the wan crescent of the vapory moon.

Charles Hamilton Musgrove

Green Silence

Silence, whose drowsy eyelids are soft leaves,
    And whose half-sleeping eyes are the blue flowers,
On whose still breast the water-lily heaves,
    For all her speech the whisper of the showers.

Made of all things that in the water sway,
    The quiet reed kissing the arrowhead,
The willows murmuring, all a summer day,
    "Silence" - sweet word, and ne'er so softly said

As here along this path of brooding peace,
    Where all things dream, and nothing else is done
But all such gentle businesses as these
    Of leaves and rippling wind, and setting sun

Turning the stream to a long lane of gold,
    Where the young moon shall walk with feet of pearl,
And, framed in sleeping lilies, fold on fold,
    Gaze at herself, like any mortal girl.

Richard Le Gallienne

The Enchanted Hill

From height of noon, remote and still,
The sun shines on the empty hill.
No mist, no wind, above, below;
No living thing strays to and fro.
No bird replies to bird on high,
Cleaving the skies with echoing cry.
Like dreaming water, green and wan,
Glassing the snow of mantling swan,
Like a clear jewel encharactered
With secret symbol of line and word,
Asheen, unruffled, slumbrous, still,
The sunlight streams on the empty hill.

But soon as Night's dark shadows ride
Across its shrouded Eastern side,
When at her kindling, clear and full,
Star beyond star stands visible;
Then course pale phantoms, fleet-foot deer
Lap of its waters icy-clear;
Mounts the large moon, and pours her beams
On bright-fish-flashing, singing streams;
Voices re-echo;...

Walter De La Mare