Near Brussels: A Half-way Pause

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.