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Late June rules triumphant; The sun has conquered the land. The hay stands lush and ready waiting for the mower’s hand. As if in a dream, the tired man leans upon his resting scythe. The only sign he is still awake is the slow roving of his eyes. Behind him lays the fallen rows Surrendered to his singing blade; ahead awaits the serried ranks to in their turn be laid. But the day is hot, is it not? The hay can wait awhile while a mower’s mind drifts away like a pleasure barge down the Nile. For wouldn’t it be fine to sip cool wine, and recline on pillows in the shade, while near at hand, slowly wafting a fan, kneels a dark-eyed maid? The red sail is still, the wine is chill, and the river is as flat as a sheet. While the maiden croons her wordless tune one can almost forget the heat. “My Lord, shall I play?” he hears her say, and nods his gold-crowned brow, as the air shimmers, and the sun glimmers on the muddy water at the bow. Her dulcimer chimes, truly sublime, and her voice

Rest up, you sweet child of light, night arrives without a word. The brook will sing you a soft melody, charmer for sleep and weary eyes creep evermore. Please, use my lap to rest your head on. Take this wild bed as the dark takes in, for lay here now with heavy eyes of lead. But, before you go off to worlds unknown, where sleep is good. I ask, you look up into the heavens aglow. Look at those lights above caught in that vast sea of crystal lit dew. Remember that while sleep does gift you dreams, so does this life gift them too. Heros and monsters, legends and odes are chiseled on the sky. For dreams and hope, dance over our heads all through our days. All you need do is to look up where constellations float on by. For the ancients dance and will gift you many things, so sleep and know dawn will arrive as the stars shine.