With drowsy cadence half a summer's day,

The clatter of the reapers come and go.

[32]

Far violet hills, horizons filmed with showers,

The murmur of cool streams, the forest's gloom,

The voices of the breathing grass, the hum

Of ancient gardens overbanked with flowers:

Thus, with a smile as golden as the dawn,

And cool fair fingers radiantly divine,

The mighty mother brings us in her hand,

For all tired eyes and foreheads pinched and wan,

Her restful cup, her beaker of bright wine:

Drink, and be filled, and ye shall understand!

AT THE FERRY

On such a day the shrunken stream

Spends its last water and runs dry;

Clouds like far turrets in a dream

Stand baseless in the burning sky.

On such a day at every rod

The toilers in the hay-field halt,

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