I was musing alone one hot afternoon, In the shade of a vine on a bright day in June; Not a sound in the air but the hum of the bees, Nor a zephyr to sway the tops of the trees; The cricket seemed tired of the shrill noise he made, The butterfly folded his wings in the shade, The flowers, so fragrant when day had begun, No longer breathed perfume before the fierce sun: O’er nature a dull sleepy silence had grown, And even the clouds seemed moveless as stone. Reclined in a chair, with my face towards the sky, The tall posts of the telegraph thought-road near by, I fancied I heard every word sent along, The short business message--the tale …
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