 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
190
THE YAFFLE
Laugh, woodpecker, down in the wood;
What do you find that moves your mirth?
Should I laugh if I understood
All that you know of the merry earth?
Is it indeed so good?
What do you find that moves your mirth?
Should I laugh if I understood
All that you know of the merry earth?
Is it indeed so good?
All day long has the sunlight lain
Over the valley, across the sea,
Over the meadows that ache for rain,
Hazy hills on the utmost lea,
Herds that graze in the plain;
Over the valley, across the sea,
Over the meadows that ache for rain,
Hazy hills on the utmost lea,
Herds that graze in the plain;
Under the crag, where the tree-tops lean,
Flashed your feathers in green and gold,
Stroke by stroke, with a dip between;
Then you tapped at the woodworn's hold
Shattered his flimsy screen,
Flashed your feathers in green and gold,
Stroke by stroke, with a dip between;
Then you tapped at the woodworn's hold
Shattered his flimsy screen,
Pulled and swallowed him, writhing soft;
Was he dreaming of summer too,
Where he swung in the airy croft?
Had he toiled to be food for you?
You, where you sate aloft,
Was he dreaming of summer too,
Where he swung in the airy croft?
Had he toiled to be food for you?
You, where you sate aloft,
191
Felt the summer in brain and blood,
Pleased to think that your simple craft
Brought you leisure and ample food,—
That was your secret: so you laughed
Loud and long in the wood.
Pleased to think that your simple craft
Brought you leisure and ample food,—
That was your secret: so you laughed
Loud and long in the wood.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |