The soft illumination of a white rooftop sectioned by boles of nearer pines is the waxing moon's gift, though the gibbous moon itself is concealed by foliage. The north breeze barely moves, all the ground's coat of dry leaves are left unstirred and silent, but a dog's repeated barks drift by and then vanish, leaving night still. The afternoon had brought the first southern breeze in days, soft, mild, and smelling of the apple trees and of the freshly-turned earth beyond the orchard. Bright sunlight flashed black on the wings of a dozen or more crows who flew cawing into the wind. Soon, there will be flights of migrating geese and ducks and swans. First, though, a warmer week will pass, and more color must come to the trees. Autumn seems as slow as tonight's breeze this year. Meanwhile, I languish with the still leaves.
A Half-Way Pause
by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
The turn of noontide has begun. In the weak breeze the sunshine yields. There is a bell upon the fields. On the long hedgerow's tangled run A low white cottage intervenes: Against the wall a blind man leans, And sways his face to have the sun.
Our horses' hoofs stir in the road, Quiet and sharp. Light hath a song Whose silence, being heard, seems long. The point of noon maketh abode, And will not be at once gone through. The sky's deep colour saddens you, And the heat weighs a dreamy load.