University of Virginia Library

HAYMAKING.

Lucy and I are afield in the glow of our Midsummer morning;
Lucy and I are at ease under the hazels at noon;
Lucy and I go home long after the rose of the sunset
Darkens to purple and grey, dies in the light of the moon.
For it is haymaking time, and every one hastes to the meadows
Prompt with a helpful hand, eager at least to be there:
All our village are there, and the perfumed breath of the windrows
Blows from the rudest lips snatches of laughter and song.
See you this labouring team, that moves o'er the crest of the upland,
Down where yon snug white farm, low in the heart of the vale,
Looks toward the far-off hills and the great clouds marching above them?
These are her father's fields, these are the meadows I love.
Here, while the little ones watch, and the lads and the bonny brown lasses
Scatter the fragrant grass over each other at play,
Lucy and I, above all, for true love is fellow to labour,
Find in the work of our hands pleasures as pure as the day.
Lucy aloft on the wain, with the hay-floods rising about her,
Masters each mounting wave, spreads it and smoothes it around;
Till from her settled throne, from the level and perfected summit,
Pausing awhile to gaze timidly over the edge,
She in a trice slips down by the well-comb'd walls of the waggon
Into my arms, and I lead her at length to the farm.
Sweet is the full farmyard, for the creatures she loves are within it;
Sweet is the green little garth where she sits milking at eve;
Sweet shall the hayricks be, for Lucy will help me to make them,
Not with her strength alone, but with the charm of her eyes:
Sweeter than all is herself; a ceaseless wonderful sunlight
Dwells on her face all day, dwells on the deeps of her hair;
Shining, I think, unawares; for she is what Nature has made her,
Fresh with the freedom of youth, fearless and pure as a child.
Ah, if I win her at last, there will not be aught of deserving;
She has a treasure to give more than I dare to demand:
She will come down to my heart as a lark drops out of the heaven
Into its homely nest, low in the whispering corn.