The new minnesinger and other poems By Arran Leigh [i.e. K. H. Bradley and E. E. Cooper] |
 |
 |
THE GRASS OF THE FIELD.
|
|
 | The new minnesinger and other poems |  |
63
THE GRASS OF THE FIELD.
Oh, the sweet green grass is dear to me,
I lie in it all day long;
I love it better than flower or tree,
And tell my love in a song.
I lie in it all day long;
I love it better than flower or tree,
And tell my love in a song.
I love it better than all the flowers;
It doth not wither nor fade,
But patiently waits through wintry hours
The joy of the springing blade.
It doth not wither nor fade,
But patiently waits through wintry hours
The joy of the springing blade.
The hard-bred grass doth not fear to brave
The roughest storms that may blow:
It keeps a warm covert round the grave,
Far under the chilling snow.
The roughest storms that may blow:
It keeps a warm covert round the grave,
Far under the chilling snow.
64
And therefore 'tis grown so dear to me,
It seems a half-human thing:
By hillock and hedgerow, moor and lea,
It greets me, where'er it spring;—
It seems a half-human thing:
By hillock and hedgerow, moor and lea,
It greets me, where'er it spring;—
The mountain grass so mossy and fine,
The crimson meads, ere the mowing,
The pastures sprinkled with buttercup shine,
The wheat in the early growing.
The crimson meads, ere the mowing,
The pastures sprinkled with buttercup shine,
The wheat in the early growing.
The long reed-bed that borders the streams,
The half-bleach'd blades by the sea;
The glow of the orchard turf—its gleams
Of snowy bloom from the tree.
The half-bleach'd blades by the sea;
The glow of the orchard turf—its gleams
Of snowy bloom from the tree.
The wind-swept sheaf all rich with the rain,
Or jewell'd in shining dew,
The meadow-blooms that the scythe hath ta'en,
And the sun hath sweeten'd anew.
Or jewell'd in shining dew,
The meadow-blooms that the scythe hath ta'en,
And the sun hath sweeten'd anew.
O grass of the hayfield! O clover breath!
O fragrance they did not know
In Eden, or e'er there was toil or death,
Or scythe that should lay thee low!
O fragrance they did not know
In Eden, or e'er there was toil or death,
Or scythe that should lay thee low!
65
There is a fragrance that comes with the fall;
Though the bread be labour-born,
The joy of the harvest outgladdens all
The pain of thistle or thorn.
Though the bread be labour-born,
The joy of the harvest outgladdens all
The pain of thistle or thorn.
What makes the sunset so golden sweet
Is the toil it bids us leave:
The workday fields for the noontide heat!
The cool green hills for the eve!
Is the toil it bids us leave:
The workday fields for the noontide heat!
The cool green hills for the eve!
The roadside grass to sweeten the way
That our weary feet must tread;
And oh, the dear earthy turf to lay
At last round the restful head!
That our weary feet must tread;
And oh, the dear earthy turf to lay
At last round the restful head!
| The new minnesinger and other poems | |