I cannot rest when the cool is gone from June,
But haunt the dim verandah till the moon
Fades from the dawn's pursuit.
The stirrup-fires beneath the terrace flare;
Over the star-domed court a low, sad air
Roams from a hidden lute.
This endless heat doth urge me to extremes;
Yet cool of autumn waits till the wild goose screams
In the track of whirling skies.
My hand is laid upon the cup once more,
And of the red-gold vintage I implore
The sleep that night denies.