There is a month between the swath and sheaf1
When grass is gone2
And corn still grassy,3
When limes are massy4
With hanging leaf5
And pollen-coloured blooms whereon6
Bees are voices we can hear,7
So hugely dumb8
The silent month of the attaining year.9
The white-faced roses slowly disappear10
From field and hedgerow, and no more flowers come :11
Earth lies in strain of powers12
Too terrible for flowers :13
And would we know14
Her burthen we must go15
Forth from the vale, and, ere the sunstrokes slacken,16
Stand at a moorland’s edge and gaze17
Across the hush and blaze18
Of the clear-burning, verdant, summer bracken ;19
For in that silver flame20
Is writ July’s own name.21
The ineffectual, numbed sweet22
Of passion at its heat.23