The days have slain
the days, and the seasons have gone by
And brought me the summer again; and here on the grass I lie
As erst I lay and was glad ere I meddled with right and with
wrong.
Wide lies the mead as of old, and the river is creeping along
By the side of the elm-clad bank that turns its weedy stream,
And grey o’er its hither lip the quivering rushes gleam.
There is work in the mead as of old; they are eager at winning
the hay,
While every sun sets bright and begets a fairer day.
The forks shine white in the sun round the yellow red-wheeled
wain,
Where the mountain of hay grows fast; and now from out of the
lane
Comes the ox-team drawing another, comes the bailiff and the
beer,
And thump, thump, goes the farmer’s nag o’er the
narrow bridge of the weir.
High up and light are the clouds, and though the swallows flit
So high o’er the sunlit earth, they are well a part of
it,
And so, though high over them, are the wings of the wandering
herne;
In measureless depths above him doth the fair sky quiver and
burn;
The dear sun floods the land as the morning falls toward noon,
And a little wind is awake in the best of the latter June.
They are busy winning the hay, and the life and
the picture they make,
If I were as once I was, I should deem it made for my sake;
For here if one need not work is a place for happy rest,
While one’s thought wends over the world, north, south, and
east and west.
p. 36There are
the men and the maids, and the wives and the gaffers grey
Of the fields I know so well, and but little changed are they
Since I was a lad amongst them; and yet how great is the
change!
Strange are they grown unto me; yea, I to myself am strange.
Their talk and their laughter mingling with the music of the
meads
Has now no meaning to me to help or to hinder my needs,
So far from them have I drifted. And yet amidst them
goes
A part of myself, my boy, and of pleasure and pain he knows,
And deems it something strange when he is other than glad.
Lo now! the woman that stoops and kisses the face of the lad,
And puts a rake in his hand and laughs in his laughing
face—
Whose is the voice that laughs in the old familiar place?
Whose should it be but my love’s, if my love were yet on
the earth?
Could she refrain from the fields where my joy and her joy had
birth,
When I was there and her child, on the grass that knew her
feet
Mid the flowers that led her on when the summer eve was
sweet?
No, no, it is she no longer; never again can
she come
And behold the hay-wains creeping o’er the meadows of her
home;
No more can she kiss her son or put the rake in his hand
That she handled a while agone in the midst of the haymaking
band.
Her laughter is gone and her life; there is no such thing on the
earth,
No share for me then in the stir, no share in the hurry and
mirth.
Nay, let me look and believe that all these
will vanish away,
At least when the night has fallen, and that she will be there
mid the hay,
Happy and weary with work, waiting and longing for love.
There will she be, as of old, when the great moon hung above,
And lightless and dead was the village, and nought but the weir
was awake;
There will she rise to meet me, and my hands will she hasten to
take,
And thence shall we wander away, and over the ancient bridge
By many a rose-hung hedgerow, till we reach the sun-burnt
ridge
p. 37And the
great trench digged by the Romans: there then awhile shall we
stand,
To watch the dawn come creeping o’er the fragrant lovely
land,
Till all the world awaketh, and draws us down, we twain,
To the deeds of the field and the fold and the merry
summer’s gain.
Ah thus, only thus shall I see her, in dreams
of the day or the night,
When my soul is beguiled of its sorrow to remember past
delight.
She is gone. She was and she is not; there is no such thing
on the earth
But e’en as a picture painted; and for me there is void and
dearth
That I cannot name or measure.
Yet for me and all these she died,
E’en as she lived for awhile, that the better day might
betide.
Therefore I live, and I shall live till the last day’s work
shall fail.
Have patience now but a little and I will tell you the tale
Of how and why she died, and why I am weak and worn,
And have wandered away to the meadows and the place where I was
born:
But here and to-day I cannot; for ever my thought will stray
To that hope fulfilled for a little and the bliss of the earlier
day.
Of the great world’s hope and anguish to-day I scarce can
think:
Like a ghost from the lives of the living and their earthly deeds
I shrink.
I will go adown by the water and over the ancient bridge,
And wend in our footsteps of old till I come to the sun-burnt
ridge,
And the great trench digged by the Romans; and thence awhile will
I gaze,
And see three teeming counties stretch out till they fade in the
haze;
And in all the dwellings of man that thence mine eyes shall
see,
What man as hapless as I am beneath the sun shall be?
O fool, what words are these? Thou hast a
sorrow to nurse,
And thou hast been bold and happy; but these, if they utter a
curse,
No sting it has and no meaning—it is empty sound on the
air.
Thy life is full of mourning, and theirs so empty and bare
p. 38That they
have no words of complaining; nor so happy have they been
That they may measure sorrow or tell what grief may mean.
And thou, thou hast deeds to do, and toil to meet thee soon;
Depart and ponder on these through the sun-worn afternoon.
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