One harvest 's done,
waiting in hand
another green repetition:
here in this fallow time
what think thou
great green pale meadow-
your voice must be unknown now,
eyes stolen through
somewhere far-
between the furrows
grass's silky frill proudly stir
you have a mind
but not to hear
this piping lark
that's come unasked
in this indifferent wind
as a beauty-giver-
they have left
with their mighty hands filled,
left the unmindful silence distilled
in thy reaping breast;
one business in field dies
from this good patience
other dreams are ready to rise-
the hours in between
like a stripped body, thin
movelessly lies-
next time - is it more price
for which you're sworn -
giving round their hands
plenty of golden corn?
or, this thoughtful wing
may ever bring
thou close to some rueful lines
of a sadder poet
perhaps it's too late
you know through him,
this golden accumulation
not of thine,
not a shred of it,
not even these little flowers
from grasses at thy feet:
late upon these hours,
I too sitting upon my bowers
feel the mill of a poet' s mind-
feel his consuming time and find
him dying down in weary spot;
the odour smelt out of his thought
they left him ever in a naught...
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