June (after Hugo)

In summer, when light’s fled, narcotic scents

are poured out from ten thousand blooms; we doze

with shut eyes but ears which only half-close,

immured by sleep of a strange transparence.


Soft shadows and the stars subtler, less bright;

vague radiance tints that eternal hall,

and the sweet pale dawn, awaiting her call,

seems wandering low in the sky all night.