Dew Dreams

'tis the soul's August,
whose roots are tightly compact'd--
water stagnates and rots the soil.
Nothing seems to pass through it.

In dreamy night air does
it imagine,
a haze of soft rain,
to refresh the hell
of the hot day.

Autumnal glimpses
are found deep within,
deadening the murmuring
below.

And nothing sticks to it,
vanishing up like
morning dew.