Despotic, heavy Summer's heat,
A lazy king hears pleas for grace;
Complicit white skies burn his face,
Which yawns near shirking men asleep.
With sloth to thank, the morning lark
Sang not: no cloud, no breath, no crease
Of softest ripples on blue leas,
Where silence falls in stillness dark.
Cicadas come in torpor tart,
And on their bed of unmatched stones
The streams half-dry no longer splash,
And endless spins of moiré art
More luminous than tidal moans,
As wasps fly by in gold and black.