XXXIII
DOG-DAYS
EVERY morning dies the sun On the eastern horizon, And a blazing god is born From the white egg of the morn.
Then the chorus that saluted Rosy-fingered dawn is muted, And the spirits of the earth Shrink beneath that fiery birth.
Underneath the green they lie Where a water-brook goes by; In a cowslip or, in turn, Couched below a fragrant fern.
You shall find them in the shadow Where the woodside meets the meadow; Lift the arum, they are there Breathing some cool well of air;
Waiting in the hopeful grass Till the fiery day shall pass, Till the flame is laid to rest On the red hearse of the west.