When the slow year creeps hay-ward, and the skies

Are warming in the summer’s mild surprise,

And the still breeze disturbs each leafy frond

Like hungry fishes dimpling in a pond,

It is a pleasant thing to dream at ease

On sun-warmed thyme, not far from beechen trees.

A robin flashing in a rowan-tree,

A wanton robin, spills his melody

As if he had such store of golden tones

That they were no more worth to him than stones:

The sunny lizards dream upon the ledges:

Linnets titter in and out the hedges,

Or swoop among the freckled butterflies.

Down to a beechen hollow winds the track

And tunnels past my twilit bivouac:

Two spiring wisps of smoke go singly up

And scarcely tremble in the leafy air.

—There are more shadows in this loamy cup

Than God could count: and oh, but it is fair:

The kindly green and rounded trunks, that meet

Under the soil with twinings of their feet

And in the sky with twinings of their arms:

The yellow stools: the still ungathered charms

Of berry, woodland herb, and bryony,

And mid-wood’s changeling child, Anemone.

Quiet as a grave beneath a spire

I lie and watch the pointed climbing fire,

I lie and watch the smoky weather-cock

That climbs too high, and bends to the breeze’s shock,

And breaks, and dances off across the skies

Gay as a flurry of blue butterflies.

But presently the evening shadows in,

Heralded by the night-jar’s solitary din

And the quick bat’s squeak among the trees;

—Who sudden rises, darting across the air

To weave her filmy web in the Sun’s bright hair

That slowly sinks dejected on his knees ...

Now is he vanished: the bewildered skies

Flame out a desperate and last surmise;

Then yield to Night, their sudden conqueror.

From pole to pole the shadow of the world

Creeps over heaven, till itself is lit

By the very many stars that wake in it:

Sleep, like a messenger of great import,

Lays quiet and compelling hands athwart

The easy idlenesses of my mind.

—There is a breeze above me, and around:

There is a fire before me, and behind:

But Sleep doth hold me, and I hear no sound.

In the far West the clouds are mustering,

Without hurry, noise, or blustering:

And soon as Body’s nightly Sentinel

Himself doth nod, I open furtive eyes ...

With darkling hook the Farmer of the Skies

Goes reaping stars: they flicker, one by one,

Nodding a little; tumble—and are gone.