Читать книгу Poems - Cawein Madison Julius - Страница 15

  The teasel and the horsemint spread

    The hillside as with sunset, sown

    With blossoms, o'er the Standing-Stone

  That ripples in its rocky bed:

    There are no treasuries that hold

    Gold richer than the marigold

  That crowns its sparkling head.

  'Tis harvest time: a mower stands

    Among the morning wheat and whets

    His scythe, and for a space forgets

  The labor of the ripening lands;

    Then bends, and through the dewy grain

    His long scythe hisses, and again

  He swings it in his hands.

  And she beholds him where he mows

    On acres whence the water sends

    Faint music of reflecting bends

  And falls that interblend with flows:

    She stands among the old bee-gums,—

    Where all the apiary hums,—

  A simple bramble-rose.

  She hears him whistling as he leans,

    And, reaping, sweeps the ripe wheat by;

    She sighs and smiles, and knows not why,

  Nor what her heart's disturbance means:

    He whets his scythe, and, resting, sees

    Her rose-like 'mid the hives of bees,

  Beneath the flowering beans.

  The peacock-purple lizard creeps

    Along the rail; and deep the drone

    Of insects makes the country lone

  With summer where the water sleeps:

    She hears him singing as he swings

    His scythe—who thinks of other things

  Than toil, and, singing, reaps.