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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=374720" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>In July</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=374720" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">WHY do I make no poems? Good my friend <br>Now is there silence through the summer woods, <br>In whose green depths and lawny solitudes <br>The light is dreaming; voicings clear ascend <br>Now from no hollow where glad rivulets wend, <br>But murmurings low of inarticulate moods, <br>Softer than stir of unfledged cushat broods, <br>Breathe, till o'er drowsed the heavy flower-heads bend. <br>Now sleep the crystal and heart-charmed waves <br>Round white, sunstricken rocks the noontide long, <br>Or 'mid the coolness of dim lighted caves <br>Sway in a trance of vague deliciousness; <br>And I,--I am too deep in joy's excess <br>For the imperfect impulse of a song.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Edward+Dowden">Edward Dowden</a></strong></div>

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