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letra de august by james whitcomb riley - richard mitchley

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a day of torpor in the sullen heat
of summer’s passion: in the sluggish stream
the panting cattle lave their lazy feet
with drowsy eyes, and dream

long since the winds have died, and in the sky
there lives no cloud to hint of nature’s grief;
the sun glares ever like an evil eye
and withers flower and leaf

upon the gleaming harvest-field remote
the threshеr lies desertеd, like some old
dismantled galleon that hangs afloat
upon a sea of gold

the yearning cry of some bewildered bird
above an empty nest, and truant boys
along the river’s shady margin heard–
a harmony of noise–

a melody of wrangling voices blent
with liquid laughter, and with rippling calls
of piping lips and thrilling echoes sent
to mimic waterfalls

and through the hazy veil the atmosphere
has draped about the gleaming face of day
the sifted glances of the sun appear
in splinterings of spray
the dusty highway, like a cloud of dawn
trails o’er the hillside, and the passer-by
a tired ghost in misty shroud, toils on
his journey to the sky

and down across the valley’s drooping sweep
withdrawn to farthest limit of the glade
the forest stands in silence, drinking deep
its purple wine of shade

the gossamer floats up on phantom wing;
the sailor-vision voyages the skies
and carries into chaos everything
that freights the weary eyes:

till, throbbing on and on, the pulse of heat
increases–reaches–passes fever’s height
and day sinks into slumber, cool and sweet
within the arms of night

- richard mitchley

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