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194
ON DARTMOOR.
I.
Warm tissue of refulgent vapour fillsThe valley southward to the hurrying stream,
Whose withered and sun-wasted waters gleam
Meandering downwards through the terraced hills;
Here, even here, the hand of man fulfils
Its daily toil, for though alone I seem
I hear the clangour of a far-off team,
And men that shout above the shouting rills;
Nor jars this noise of labour on mine ear,
Nor seem, because of these, the spirits less near
That animate the mountains and the skies,
The selfsame heart of nature shineth clear
Through filmy garments of a golden sphere
And earnest looks of humble human eyes.
195
II.
A soft grey line of haze subdues the westThat was so rosy half-an-hour ago;
The moaning night-breeze just begins to blow,
And now the team that ploughed the mountain's breast
Cease their long toil, and dream of home and rest;
Now, giant-like, the tall young ploughmen go
Between me and the sunset, footing slow;
My spirit, as an uninvited guest,
Goes with them, wondering what desire, what aim,
May stir their hearts and mine with common flame,
Or, thoughtless, do their hands suffice their soul?
I know not, care not, for I deem no shame
To hold men, flowers, and trees and stars the same,
Myself, as these, one atom in the whole.
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