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67
IN A MEADOW.
At the mid-heaven the July sun is burning,
Pouring his white heat on the throbbing world,
With all its green-gold wheat to yellow turning,
And all its polished grass-blades crisped and curled.
Pouring his white heat on the throbbing world,
With all its green-gold wheat to yellow turning,
And all its polished grass-blades crisped and curled.
I know, a stone's throw off, are quaint old gardens—
The thrush's home, the blackbird's long desire—
In whose green gloom red lilies stand for wardens,
Keeping their Paradise with swords of fire.
The thrush's home, the blackbird's long desire—
In whose green gloom red lilies stand for wardens,
Keeping their Paradise with swords of fire.
But here—oh, sweet!—the lark's above in heaven,
On the sun's heart, whose bird of love he is;
With the warm wind is all the wide mead waven,
Tossed to grey breakers like the hoary seas.
On the sun's heart, whose bird of love he is;
With the warm wind is all the wide mead waven,
Tossed to grey breakers like the hoary seas.
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Brave's my dark hedge with rose and pearl festooning
The hyacinth-coloured woodbine's honey-sweet;
Hark! in the neighbouring wheat some wood-sprite crooning,
Talking and walking with unresting feet.
The hyacinth-coloured woodbine's honey-sweet;
Hark! in the neighbouring wheat some wood-sprite crooning,
Talking and walking with unresting feet.
Here's honeysuckle, and the bee her lover,
And great dog-daisies softly swayed and moved;
All the field's floor doth scattered gold-dust cover,
The yellow cuckoo-buds that Shakspere loved.
And great dog-daisies softly swayed and moved;
All the field's floor doth scattered gold-dust cover,
The yellow cuckoo-buds that Shakspere loved.
On such a day, on such a day, by Avon,
Prone in the meadows, screened from human sight,
Only the lark to watch him from high heaven,
He drank like me the Summer's full delight.
Prone in the meadows, screened from human sight,
Only the lark to watch him from high heaven,
He drank like me the Summer's full delight.
In such a mead—oh, sweet!—I see him lying,
With his deep eyes all warm with happy dreams—
Warm with his youth, and swallows o'er him flying,
Lighting his brown hair with their wings' swift gleams.
With his deep eyes all warm with happy dreams—
Warm with his youth, and swallows o'er him flying,
Lighting his brown hair with their wings' swift gleams.
In Charlecote it might be, beside the river,
Where trees and ferns make alcoves cool and dim,
And the white stars of lilies lightly quiver,
And water-fowl come forth to look at him.
Where trees and ferns make alcoves cool and dim,
And the white stars of lilies lightly quiver,
And water-fowl come forth to look at him.
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Afar beyond the woods from his lush meadow,
He sees red roof and chimney-stack arise,
And o'er his dreaming flits like sun through shadow
The love-light of Anne Hathaway's blue eyes.
He sees red roof and chimney-stack arise,
And o'er his dreaming flits like sun through shadow
The love-light of Anne Hathaway's blue eyes.
Yon is Sir Thomas Lucy's orchard shady,
With the small apples brightening on the boughs,
And round the red rose garden of my Lady
The hollyhocks stand up in stately rows.
With the small apples brightening on the boughs,
And round the red rose garden of my Lady
The hollyhocks stand up in stately rows.
But sweeter far Anne Hathaway's small garden,
With a sun-dial at the heart thereof,
Where the birds sing as ne'er they sang in Arden,
And the air's rich with musk, and thyme, and clove.
With a sun-dial at the heart thereof,
Where the birds sing as ne'er they sang in Arden,
And the air's rich with musk, and thyme, and clove.
But sweetest flower amid the rare old flowers,
Gold-crested Anne with her sweet eyes of youth;
And her shy smile comes through the dusky bowers,
Most meet for whispering lover's tales in sooth.
Gold-crested Anne with her sweet eyes of youth;
And her shy smile comes through the dusky bowers,
Most meet for whispering lover's tales in sooth.
Nay, I but dream—three hundred years are over
Since the true lovers lived through love's delights;
They sleep below the dew and the white clover,
And hear the nightingale o' moon-white nights.
Since the true lovers lived through love's delights;
They sleep below the dew and the white clover,
And hear the nightingale o' moon-white nights.
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See, here are Shakspere's flowers that set me dreaming,
In this grey Irish meadow at my feet;
The gold-heart lady-smocks all whitely gleaming,
The cuckoo-buds the brown bee finds so sweet.
In this grey Irish meadow at my feet;
The gold-heart lady-smocks all whitely gleaming,
The cuckoo-buds the brown bee finds so sweet.
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