[Poems by Hayne in] Songs of the South choice selections from Southern poets from colonial times to the present day |
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 | [Poems by Hayne in] Songs of the South |  |
144
IN THE WHEAT-FIELD.
PAUL H. HAYNE
When the lids of the virgin Dawn unclose,
When the earth is fair and the heavens are calm,
And the early breath of the wakening rose
Floats on the air in balm,
I stand breast-high in the pearly wheat
That ripples and thrills to a sportive breeze,
Borne over the field with its Hermes feet,
And its subtle odor of southern seas;
While out of the infinite azure deep
The flashing wings of the swallows sweep,
Buoyant and beautiful, wild and fleet,
Over the waves of the whispering wheat.
When the earth is fair and the heavens are calm,
And the early breath of the wakening rose
Floats on the air in balm,
I stand breast-high in the pearly wheat
That ripples and thrills to a sportive breeze,
Borne over the field with its Hermes feet,
And its subtle odor of southern seas;
While out of the infinite azure deep
The flashing wings of the swallows sweep,
Buoyant and beautiful, wild and fleet,
Over the waves of the whispering wheat.
Aurora faints in the fulgent fire
Of the Monarch of Morning's bright embrace,
And the summer day climbs higher and higher
Up the cerulean space;
The pearl-tints fade from the radiant grain,
And the sportive breeze of the ocean dies,
And soon in the noontide's soundless rain
The fields seem graced by a million eyes;
Each grain with a glance from its lidded fold
As bright as a gnome's in his mine of gold,
While the slumb'rous glamour of beam and heat
Glides over and under the windless wheat.
Of the Monarch of Morning's bright embrace,
And the summer day climbs higher and higher
Up the cerulean space;
The pearl-tints fade from the radiant grain,
And the sportive breeze of the ocean dies,
And soon in the noontide's soundless rain
The fields seem graced by a million eyes;
Each grain with a glance from its lidded fold
As bright as a gnome's in his mine of gold,
While the slumb'rous glamour of beam and heat
Glides over and under the windless wheat.
Yet the languid spirit of lazy Noon,
With its minor and Morphean music rife,
Is pulsing in low, voluptuous tune
With summer's lust of life.
Hark! to the droning of drowsy wings,
To the honey bees as they go and come,
To the “boomer” scarce rounding his sultry rings,
The gnat's small horn and the beetle's hum;
And hark to the locust!—noon's one shrill song,
Like the tingling steel of an elfin gong,
Grows lower through quavers of long retreat
To swoon on the dazzled and distant wheat.
With its minor and Morphean music rife,
Is pulsing in low, voluptuous tune
With summer's lust of life.
145
To the honey bees as they go and come,
To the “boomer” scarce rounding his sultry rings,
The gnat's small horn and the beetle's hum;
And hark to the locust!—noon's one shrill song,
Like the tingling steel of an elfin gong,
Grows lower through quavers of long retreat
To swoon on the dazzled and distant wheat.
Now Day declines! and his shafts of might
Are sheathed in a quiver of opal haze;
Still thro' the chastened, but magic light,
What sunset grandeurs blaze!
For the sky, in its mellowed luster, seems
Like the realm of a master poet's mind,—
A shifting kingdom of splendid dreams,—
With fuller and fairer truths behind;
And the changeful colors that blend or part,
Ebb like the tides of a living heart,
As the splendor melts and the shadows meet,
And the tresses of Twilight trail over the wheat.
Are sheathed in a quiver of opal haze;
Still thro' the chastened, but magic light,
What sunset grandeurs blaze!
For the sky, in its mellowed luster, seems
Like the realm of a master poet's mind,—
A shifting kingdom of splendid dreams,—
With fuller and fairer truths behind;
And the changeful colors that blend or part,
Ebb like the tides of a living heart,
As the splendor melts and the shadows meet,
And the tresses of Twilight trail over the wheat.
Thus Eve creeps slowly and slyly down,
And the gurgling notes of the swallow cease,
They flicker aloft through the foliage brown,
In the ancient vesper peace:
But a step like the step of a conscious fawn
Is stealing—with many a pause—this way,
Till the hand of my Love through mine is drawn,
Her heart on mine, in the tender ray;
O hand of the lily, O heart of truth,
O Love, thou art faithful and fond as Ruth;
But I am the gleaner—of kisses—Sweet,
While the starlight dawns on the dimpling wheat!
And the gurgling notes of the swallow cease,
They flicker aloft through the foliage brown,
In the ancient vesper peace:
But a step like the step of a conscious fawn
Is stealing—with many a pause—this way,
Till the hand of my Love through mine is drawn,
Her heart on mine, in the tender ray;
O hand of the lily, O heart of truth,
O Love, thou art faithful and fond as Ruth;
But I am the gleaner—of kisses—Sweet,
While the starlight dawns on the dimpling wheat!
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