 | Lauds |  |
38
AUGUST
Now is August and the white, golden weather,
Gone the bird notes and the wild hopes together;
Now's fruition after all the sowing;
Over all the songs of all the lovers,
And the red poppies and the honied clovers
And the seas of the meadows ebbing, flowing.
Gone the bird notes and the wild hopes together;
Now's fruition after all the sowing;
Over all the songs of all the lovers,
And the red poppies and the honied clovers
And the seas of the meadows ebbing, flowing.
Sweet it is away from men and cities,
Where the deep greenwood sings its ancient ditties,
On wide moors where the sky is great and spacious;
O'er the hills majestical and hoary,
In deep glens where the brown stream tells its story,
And the grey trout turns in a pool capacious.
Where the deep greenwood sings its ancient ditties,
On wide moors where the sky is great and spacious;
O'er the hills majestical and hoary,
In deep glens where the brown stream tells its story,
And the grey trout turns in a pool capacious.
Now, my dear, once more shall we stray and wander
Hand in hand, take our delight and ponder,
Far away from the city's fret and fever,
How the seasons pass and the sweet roses,
All delights their pauses have and closes,
Only love endures for ever and ever.
Hand in hand, take our delight and ponder,
Far away from the city's fret and fever,
How the seasons pass and the sweet roses,
All delights their pauses have and closes,
Only love endures for ever and ever.
39
Happy now the gleaning man and reaping,
Sweet his food and deep his pleasant sleeping
In his gold-thatched house beside the coppice.
All the day the sun in sweat will bathe him,
But nor grief nor cares can fret nor scathe him
Where Sleep shakes for him her bed of poppies.
Sweet his food and deep his pleasant sleeping
In his gold-thatched house beside the coppice.
All the day the sun in sweat will bathe him,
But nor grief nor cares can fret nor scathe him
Where Sleep shakes for him her bed of poppies.
Better is he than with the townsman's riches.
Deeps and shallows of gold the cornfield stretches.
Better his simple cottage than a palace;
Where all night the harvest moon's above him,
And those angels of God, the sweet stars, love him,
While the wind wanders in the golden valleys.
Deeps and shallows of gold the cornfield stretches.
Better his simple cottage than a palace;
Where all night the harvest moon's above him,
And those angels of God, the sweet stars, love him,
While the wind wanders in the golden valleys.
Where the great dews of harvest drown the barley,
And the brown reapers singing late and early
Fill the solitudes the birds left lonely;
Who would choose the townsman's barren pleasure?
Here where joy's poured out withouten measure
There's no grief except the wood-dove's only.
And the brown reapers singing late and early
Fill the solitudes the birds left lonely;
Who would choose the townsman's barren pleasure?
Here where joy's poured out withouten measure
There's no grief except the wood-dove's only.
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