| |
| BETWEEN two golden tufts of summer grass, | |
| I see the world through hot air as through glass, | |
| And by my face sweet lights and colors pass. | |
| |
| Before me, dark against the fading sky, | |
| I watch three mowers mowing, as I lie: | 5 |
| With brawny arms they sweep in harmony. | |
| |
| Brown English faces by the sun burnt red, | |
| Rich glowing color on bare throat and head, | |
| My heart would leap to watch them, were I dead! | |
| |
| And in my strong young living as I lie, | 10 |
| I seem to move with them in harmony,— | |
| A fourth is mowing, and that fourth am I. | |
| |
| The music of the scythes that glide and leap, | |
| The young men whistling as their great arms sweep, | |
| And all the perfume and sweet sense of sleep, | 15 |
| |
| The weary butterflies that droop their wings, | |
| The dreamy nightingale that hardly sings, | |
| And all the lassitude of happy things, | |
| |
| Are mingling with the warm and pulsing blood | |
| That gushes through my veins a languid flood, | 20 |
| And feeds my spirit as the sap a bud. | |
| |
| Behind the mowers, on the amber air, | |
| A dark-green beech wood rises, still and fair, | |
| A white path winding up it like a stair. | |
| |
| And see that girl, with pitcher on her head, | 25 |
| And clean white apron on her gown of red,— | |
| Her even-song of love is but half-said: | |
| |
| She waits the youngest mower. Now he goes; | |
| Her cheeks are redder than a wild blush-rose: | |
| They climb up where the deepest shadows close. | 30 |
| |
| But though they pass, and vanish, I am there. | |
| I watch his rough hands meet beneath her hair, | |
| Their broken speech sounds sweet to me like prayer. | |
| |
| Ah! now the rosy children come to play, | |
| And romp and struggle with the new-mown hay; | 35 |
| Their clear high voices sound from far away. | |
| |
| They know so little why the world is sad, | |
| They dig themselves warm graves and yet are glad; | |
| Their muffled screams and laughter make me mad! | |
| |
| I long to go and play among them there; | 40 |
| Unseen, like wind, to take them by the hair, | |
| And gently make their rosy cheeks more fair. | |
| |
| The happy children! full of frank surprise, | |
| And sudden whims and innocent ecstasies; | |
| What godhead sparkles from their liquid eyes! | 45 |
| |
| No wonder round those urns of mingled clays | |
| That Tuscan potters fashioned in old days, | |
| And colored like the torrid earth ablaze, | |
| |
| We find the little gods and loves portrayed, | |
| Through ancient forests wandering undismayed, | 50 |
| And fluting hymns of pleasure unafraid. | |
| |
| They knew, as I do now, what keen delight | |
| A strong man feels to watch the tender flight | |
| Of little children playing in his sight; | |
| |
| What pure sweet pleasure, and what sacred love, | 55 |
| Come drifting down upon us from above, | |
| In watching how their limbs and features move. | |
| |
| I do not hunger for a well-stored mind; | |
| I only wish to live my life, and find | |
| My heart in unison with all mankind. | 60 |
| |
| My life is like the single dewy star | |
| That trembles on the horizon’s primrose-bar,— | |
| A microcosm where all things living are. | |
| |
| And if, among the noiseless grasses, Death | |
| Should come behind and take away my breath, | 65 |
| I should not rise as one who sorroweth; | |
| |
| For I should pass, but all the world would be | |
| Full of desire and young delight and glee, | |
| And why should men be sad through loss of me? | |
| |
| The light is flying; in the silver-blue | 70 |
| The young moon shines from her bright window through: | |
| The mowers are all gone, and I go too. | |
| |
