morning sky is white with mist, the earth
White with the inspiration
of the dew.
The harvest light
is on the hills anew,
And cheer in the grave acres' fruitful girth.
Only in this high pasture is there dearth,
Where the gray thistles
crowd in ranks austere,
As if the sod, close-cropt
for many a year,
Brought only bane and bitterness to birth.
in the crisp air's amethystine wave
How the harsh stalks
are washed with radiance now,
gleams the harsh turf where the crickets lie
Dew-freshened in their burnished armour brave!
Since earth could
not endure nor heaven allow
Aught of unlovely
in the morn's clear eye.