Among the Millet

by Archibald Lampman




The trees rustle; the wind blows
    Merrily out of the town;
The shadows creep, the sun goes
    Steadily over and down.

In a brown gloom the moats gleam;                   5
    Slender the sweet wife stands;
Her lips are red; her eyes dream;
    Kisses are warm on her hands.

The child moans; the hours slip
    Bitterly over her head:                                   10
In a gray dusk, the tears drip;
    Mother is up there dead.

The hermit hears the strange bright
    Murmur of life at play;
In the waste day and waste night                     15
    Times to rebel and to pray.

The laborer toils in gray wise,
    Godlike and patient and calm;
The beggar moans; his bleared eyes
    Measure the dust in his palm.                      20

The wise man, marks the flow and ebb
    Hidden and held aloof:
In his deep mind is laid the web,
    Shuttles are driving the woof.