Noon feet stumble and head swims.
Out shines the sun, and the thought dims,
And death, for blood, runs in the weak limbs.
To fall on flints in the shade of tall nettles
Gives easy sleep as a bed of rose petals,
And dust drifting from the highway
As light a coverlet as down may.
The myriad feet of many-sized flies
May not open those tired eyes.
The first wind of night