A languid atmosphere, a lazy breeze,/ With labored respiration, moves the wheat/ From distant reaches, till the golden seas / Break in crisp whispers at my feet. Off through the haze that dances in the shine/ The warm sun showers in the open glade,/ The forest lies, a silhouette design/ Dimmed through and through with shade. A dreamy day; and tranquilly I lie/ At anchor from all storms of mental strain;/ With absent vision, gazing at the sky,/ „Like one that hears it rain.” The twitter, sometimes, of a wayward