 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
217
THE TRUANT
Some careless droop of branches o'er the wall,
Some hidden laughter of a stream unseen,
Some breeze that wrote among the rye-grass tall
Its secret form in whorls of rustling green;—
Some hidden laughter of a stream unseen,
Some breeze that wrote among the rye-grass tall
Its secret form in whorls of rustling green;—
These drew me from my quest:—for I was sped
On some grave business that demanded haste;—
Now here I lie and rest my careless head,
Or wade through feathery grasses to the waist.
On some grave business that demanded haste;—
Now here I lie and rest my careless head,
Or wade through feathery grasses to the waist.
The birds' song drops: the solemn beetles fly;
Between the trunks I see the smouldering west;
At home they blame the truant: what care I?
I deem the trespass worthier than the quest.
Between the trunks I see the smouldering west;
At home they blame the truant: what care I?
I deem the trespass worthier than the quest.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |