The dust, unlifted, lies as first it lay
When on his dewy path came up the day;

The spider-web stirs not; on seas of air,
The thistle-ship, becalmed, rocks idly there;

The fern-leaves curl, the wild rose sweetness spends
Rich as at eve the honeysuckle lends;

The creeping cattle feed far up the hill,
The blithest birds have hid, the wood is still;

On daisied dials, pointing flower to flower,
The shadow-hands have reached the golden hour.

- John Vance Cheney 'Summer Noon' -