Spirits in Bondage

by C.S. Lewis

XVIII. Noon

Noon! and in the garden bower
     The hot air quivers o'er the grass,
     The little lake is smooth as glass
     And still so heavily the hour
     Drags, that scarce the proudest flower
     Pressed upon its burning bed
     Has strength to lift a languid head:—
     Rose and fainting violet
     By the water's margin set
     Swoon and sink as they were dead
     Though their weary leaves be fed
     With the foam-drops of the pool
     Where it trembles dark and cool
     Wrinkled by the fountain spraying
     O'er it. And the honey-bee
     Hums his drowsy melody
     And wanders in his course a-straying
     Through the sweet and tangled glade
     With his golden mead o'erladen,
     Where beneath the pleasant shade
     Of the darkling boughs a maiden—
     Milky limb and fiery tress,
     All at sweetest random laid—
     Slumbers, drunken with the excess
     Of the noontide's loveliness.