 | Country muse |  |
104
A MAID'S HOLIDAY
The deep and silent undergrowth
Shall be my home this summer day;
The idle bird and breeze shall both
Entrance me with their lay:
How cool to lie where shadows toss
In revelry upon the turf,
And press my fingers in the moss,
And be no more a serf!
Shall be my home this summer day;
The idle bird and breeze shall both
Entrance me with their lay:
How cool to lie where shadows toss
In revelry upon the turf,
And press my fingers in the moss,
And be no more a serf!
No more a slave to pen and ink;
No more a slave to aching dread;
Released from cages where I think
To win my daily bread.
O little blade of grass so soft,
My heart is glad to find you here—
To find your slender lance aloft,
With all your comrades near!
No more a slave to aching dread;
Released from cages where I think
To win my daily bread.
105
My heart is glad to find you here—
To find your slender lance aloft,
With all your comrades near!
Is then your regiment, bright, alert,
In marching order, cooled by dew,
Camped here to watch that none may hurt
The speedwell's speck of blue?
Or do you guard the foxglove bloom
That rings a chime it never tells,
Round which the bees in concert boom
And rumble in its bells?
In marching order, cooled by dew,
Camped here to watch that none may hurt
The speedwell's speck of blue?
Or do you guard the foxglove bloom
That rings a chime it never tells,
Round which the bees in concert boom
And rumble in its bells?
'Tis sweet indeed to lie and watch
Faint figures in the open glades;
To see the pressing sweethearts snatch
A tribute from the maids!
To hear the clink of milking-pails;
The brisk and angry crack of whips
That startle Colin by the rails
From touching Cicely's lips!
Faint figures in the open glades;
To see the pressing sweethearts snatch
A tribute from the maids!
106
The brisk and angry crack of whips
That startle Colin by the rails
From touching Cicely's lips!
But best of all, with eyes devout,
To gaze in silence at the sky,
And wonder if the dead look out
Upon me as I lie:
Across my patch of firmament
So many angels seem to rove—
So many friends who died and went,
Tho' not beyond my love!
To gaze in silence at the sky,
And wonder if the dead look out
Upon me as I lie:
Across my patch of firmament
So many angels seem to rove—
So many friends who died and went,
Tho' not beyond my love!
I will not wrong their happiness,
Nor lust to bring them back again,
For God will give fresh joy to ease
The iron of my pain:
He sends me lilacs, pansies, pinks,
This deep and silent undergrowth,
And sometimes, when my spirit sinks,
The peace of utter sloth.
Nor lust to bring them back again,
For God will give fresh joy to ease
The iron of my pain:
107
This deep and silent undergrowth,
And sometimes, when my spirit sinks,
The peace of utter sloth.
| Country muse | |