The near-drawn stone-smooth sky, closed in and grey,

Broods on the garden, and the turf is stall.

The dim lake shines, oppressed the fountains play,

And shadowless weight lies on the wooded hill.

The patient trees rise separate, as if deep

They listened dreaming through the hollow ground,

Each in a single and divided sleep,

While few sad leaves fall heedless with no sound.

The marble cherubs in the wavering lake

Stand up more still, as if they kept all there,

The trees, the plots, in thrall. Their shadows make

The water clear and hollow as the air.

The silent afternoon draws in, and dark

The trees rise now, grown heavier is the ground,

And breaking through the silence of the park

Farther a hidden fountain flings its sound.