Now has been contrived in the increasing noonday
Some show of order wherein to be at rest,
Some stilling of the need that space be tended,
That time be pressed.

Where in our path was the ambitious clutter of morning,
The leaf shadow and stir, the brush and broom, 
Now at the base of the trees is a clean sunlight,
At the door, room

We shall sit with minds quiet, with the loftiness, though cooler,
That the sun has for its meridian,
In the fine short space before the roof eastward
Darkens again.