  The early dew was still untrodden, Flawless it lay on flower and blade, The last caress of night’s cold fragrance A freshness in the young day made. The velvet and the silver floor Of the orchard-close was gold inlaid With spears and streaks of early sunlight— Such beauty makes men half afraid. An old man at his heap of stones Turned as I neared his clinking hammer, Part of the earth he seemed, the trees, The sky, the twelve-hour heat of summer. “Fine marnen, zÜr!” And the earth spoke From his mouth, as if the field dark red On our right hand had greeted me With words, that grew tall grain instead. . . . . . Oh, years ago, and near forgot! Yet, as I walked the Flemish way, An hour gone, England spoke to me As clear of speech as on that day; Hailed us in tones uncouth, and one Turned his face toward the marching column, Fronted, took gladness from the sun. And straight my mind was set on singing For memory of a wrinkled face, Orchards untrodden, far to travel, Sweet to find in my own place. |
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