August

 Why should this Negro insolently stride 
Down the red noonday on such noiseless feet? 
Piled in his barrow, tawnier than wheat, 
Lie heaps of smouldering daisies, sombre-eyed, 
Their copper petals shriveled up with pride, 
Hot with a superfluity of heat, 
Like a great brazier borne along the street 
By captive leopards, black and burning pied.


Are there no water-lilies, smooth as cream, 
With long stems dripping crystal? Are there none 
Like those white lilies, luminous and cool, 
Plucked from some hemlock-darkened northern stream 
By fair-haired swimmers, diving where the sun 
Scarce warms the surface of the deepest pool?

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