A reaper came, and swung his cradled scythe

Around this stump, and, shearing slowly, drew

Far round among the clover, ripe for hay,

A circle clean and grey;

And here among the scented swathes that gleam,

Mixed with dead daisies, it is sweet to lie

And watch the grass and the few-clouded sky,

Nor think but only dream.

For when the noon was turning, and the heat

Fell down most heavily on field and wood,

I too came hither, borne on restless feet,

Seeking some comfort for an aching mood.

Ah, I was weary of the drifting hours,

The echoing city towers,

The blind grey streets, the jingle of the throng,

Weary of hope that like a shape of stone

Sat near at hand without a smile or moan,

And weary most of song.

[Pg 15]

And those high moods of mine that sometime made

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