Frogs

by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts

Here in the red heart of the sunset lying,

My rest an islet of brown weeds blown dry,

I watch the wide bright heavens, hovering nigh,

My plain and pools in lucent splendour dyeing.

My view dreams over the rosy wastes, descrying

The reed-tops fret the solitary sky;

And all the air is tremulous to the cry

Of myriad frogs on mellow pipes replying.

For the unrest of passion here is peace,

And eve's cool drench for midday soil and taint.

To tired ears how sweetly brings release

This limpid babble from life's unstilled complaint;

While under tired eyelids lapse and faint

The noon's derisive visions—fade and cease.

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