Book ExcerptathThe cool gloom of the bridge.Where the far elm-tree shadows floodDark patches in the burning grass,The cows, each with her peaceful cud,Lie waiting for the heat to pass.From somewhere on the slope near byInto the pale depth of the noonA wandering thrush slides leisurelyHis thin revolving tune.In intervals of dreams I hearThe cricket from the droughty ground;The grass-hoppers spin into mine earA small innumerable sound.I lift mine eyes sometimes to gaze:The burning sky-line blinds my sight:The woods far off are blue with haze;The hills are drenched in light.And yet to me not this or thatIs always sharp or always sweet;In the sloped shadow of my hatI lean at rest, and drain the heat;Nay more, I think some blessèd powerHath brought me wandering idly here:In the full furnace of this hourMy thoughts grow keen and clear.