Hey! Heat the high sky’s eye sends streaming;
Scattering, dispelling shivers. Sweat
Pours from pores, pooling, making wet
Rivulets run down my skin glass-gleaming.
The bees ‘neath roots of trees stay, from the steaming
Heat to hide, so light-glare not to let
Roast, boil, toast, broil their colony, their set
Of gold-set jets, of golden honey dreaming.
Behold! Behind the beehive tree, the green
Shade shelters from the shimmering sheen
Of Phœbus’ fire the pool, quite cool, quite clean.
Come, cast away all care! Let us equip
Ourselves to swim; our steaming stockings strip,
As well as shoes and shirt, and take a dip.
T. G.
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