Tall poplars in the sun
Are quivering, and planes,
Forgetting the day gone,
Its cold un-August rains;
But with me still remains
The sight of beaten corn,
Crushed flowers and forlorn,
The summer’s wasted gains—
Yet pools in secret lanes
Abrim with heavenly blue
Life’s wonder mirror anew.
I must forget the pains
Of yesterday, and do
Brave things—bring loaded wains
The bare brown meadows through,
I must haste, I must out and run,
Wonder, till my heart drains
Joy’s cup, as in high champagnes
Of blue, where great clouds go on
With white sails free from stains
Full-stretched, on fleckless mains—
With captain’s joy of some proud galleon.