There is a tall white weed growing at the top of this sand hill:
In the grass
It is very still.
It lifts its heavy bracts of flattened bloom
Against the sky
Hazily grey with brume.
Out over yonder boats pass
And the swallows
Flatten themselves on the grass.
The lake is silvering beneath the heat.
The wind's feet
Touch lazily each crest,
Like white gulls slow flapping
To windward.
One rose white cloud slowly disengages, loosening itself,
And stands
Above the larkspur-coloured water:
Like Dione's daughter
Braiding up her wet hair with her pale, hands.