There is a month between the swath and sheaf

JULY

THERE is a month between the swath and sheaf 
When grass is gone 
And com still grassy, 

When limes are massy 
With hanging leaf 
And pollen-coloured blooms whereon 
Bees are voices we can hear, 
So hugely dumb 
This silent month of the attaining year. 
The white-faced roses slowly disappear 
From field and hedgerow, and no more flowers come : 
Earth lies in strain of powers 
Too terrible for flowers : 
And would we know 

Her burthen we must go 
Forth from the vale, and, ere the sunstrokes slacken. 
Stand at a moorland's edge and gaze 
Across the hush and blaze 
Of the clear-burning, verdant summer bracken ; 
For in that silver flame 
Is writ July's own name — 
The ineffectual, numbed sweet 
Of passion at its heat.