When evening came and the warm glow grew deeper And every tree that bordered the green meadows And in the yellow cornfields every reaper And every corn-shock stood above their shadows Flung eastward from their feet in longer measure, Serenely far there swam in the sunny height A buzzard and his mate who took their pleasure Swirling and poising idly in golden light. On great pied motionless moth-wings borne along, So effortless and so strong, Cutting each other's paths, together they glided, Then wheeled asunder till they soared divided Two valleys' width (as though it were delight To part like this, being sure they could unite So swiftly in their empty, free dominion), Curved headlong downward, towered up the sunny steep, Then, with a sudden lift of the one great pinion, Swung proudly to a curve and from its height Took half a mile of sunlight in one long sweep. And we, so small on the swift immense hillside, Stood tranced, until our souls arose uplifted On those far-sweeping, wide, Strong curves of flight,--swayed up and hugely drifted, Were washed, made strong and beautiful in the tide Of sun-bathed air. But far beneath, beholden Through shining deeps of air, the fields were golden And rosy burned the heather where cornfields ended. And still those buzzards wheeled, while light withdrew Out of the vales and to surging slopes ascended, Till the loftiest-flaming summit died to blue. HONEY HARVEST Late in March, when the days are growing longer And sight of early green Tells of the coming spring and suns grow stronger, Round the pale willow-catkins there are seen The year's first honey-bees Stealing the nectar: and bee-masters know This for the first sign of the honey-flow. Then in the dark hillsides the Cherry-trees Gleam white with loads of blossom where the gleams Of piled snow lately hung, and richer streams The honey. Now, if chilly April days Delay the Apple-blossom, and the May's First week come in with sudden summer weather, The Apple and the Hawthorn bloom together, And all day long the plundering hordes go round And every overweighted blossom nods. But from that gathered essence they compound Honey more sweet than nectar of the gods. Those blossoms fall ere June, warm June that brings The small white Clover. Field by scented field, Round farms like islands in the rolling weald, It spreads thick-flowering or in wildness springs Short-stemmed upon the naked downs, to yield A richer store of honey than the Rose, The Pink, the Honeysuckle. Thence there flows Nectar of clearest amber, redolent Of every flowery scent That the warm wind upgathers as he goes.