Following the river's course, We come to where the sedges plant Their thickest twinings at its source ;-- A spot that makes the heart to pant, Feeling its rest and beauty. Pull The reeds' tops thro' your fingers ; dull Your sense of the world's life ; and toss The thought away of hap or cross : Then shall the river seem to call Your name, and the slow quiet crawl Between your eyelids like a swoon ; And all the sounds at heat of noon And all the silence shall so sing Your eyes asleep as that no wing Of bird in rustling by, no prone Willow-branch on your hair, no drone Droning about and past you,--nought May soon avail to rouse you, caught With sleep thro' heat in the sun's light,-- So good, tho' losing sound and sight, You scarce would waken, if you might.
My friend, are not the grasses here as tall As you would wish to see ? The runnell's fall Over the rise of pebbles, and its blink Of shining points which, upon this side, sink In dark, yet still are there ; this ragged crane Spreading his wings at seeing us with vain Terror, forsooth ; the trees, a pulpy stock Of toadstools huddled round them ; and the flock-- Black wings after black wings--of ancient rook By rook ; has not the whole scene got a look As though we were the first whose breath should fan In two this spider's web, to give a span 77Of life more to three flies ? See, there's a stone Seems made for us to sit on. Have men gone By here, and passed ? or rested on that bank Or on this stone, yet seen no cause to thank For the grass growing here so green and rank ?
It was at day-break my thought said : " The moon makes chequered chestnut-shade There by the south-side where the vine Grapples the wall ; and if it shine This evening thro' the boughs and leaves, And if the wind with silence weaves More silence than itself, each stalk Of flower just swayed by it, we'll walk, Mary and I, when every fowl Hides beak and eyes in breast, the owl Only awake to hoot."--But clover Is beaten down now, and birds hover, Peering for shelter round ; no blade Of grass stands sharp and tall ; men wade Thro' mire with frequent plashing sting Of rain upon their faces. Sing, Then, Mary, to me thro' the dark : But kiss me first : my hand shall mark Time, pressing yours the while I hark.
Is it a little thing to lie down here Beside the water, looking into it, And see there grass and fallen leaves interknit, And small fish sometimes passing thro' some bit Of tangled grass where there's an outlet clear ? And then a drift of wind perhaps will come, And blow the insects hovering all about Into the water. Some of them get out ; Others swim with sharp twitches ; and you doubt Whether of life or death for other some. 78Meanwhile the blueflies sway themselves along Over the water's surface, or close by ; Not one in ten beyond the grass will fly That closely skirts the stream ; nor will your eye Meet any where the sunshine is not strong. After a time you find, you know not how, That it is quite a stretch of energy To do what you have done unconsciously,-- That is, pull up the grass ; and then you see You may as well rise and be going now. So, having walked for a few steps, you fall Bodily on the grass under the sun, And listen to the rustle, one by one, Of the trees' leaves ; and soon the wind has done For a short space, and it is quiet all ; Except because the rooks will make a caw Just now and then together : and the breeze Soon rises up again among the trees, Making the grass, moreover, bend and tease Your face, but pleasantly. Mayhap the paw Of a dog touches you and makes you rise Upon one arm to pat him ; and he licks Your hand for that. A child is throwing sticks, Hard by, at some half-dozen cows, which fix Upon him their unmoved contented eyes. The sun's heat now is painful. Scarce can you Move, and even less lie still. You shuffle then, Poised on your arms, again to shade. Again There comes a pleasant laxness on you. When You have done enough of nothing, you will go. Some hours perhaps have passed. Say not you fling These hours or such-like recklessly away. Seeing the grass and sun and children, say, Is not this something more than idle play, Than careless waste ? Is it a little thing ?
