Hold, Time, a little while thy glass. And Youth, fold up those peacock wings! More rapture fills the years that pass Than any hope the future brings; Some for to-morrow rashly pray, And some desire to hold to-day, But I am sick for yesterday. Since yesterday the hills were blue That shall be gray for evermore, And the fair sunset was shot through With color never seen before! Tyrannic Love smiled yesterday, And lost the terrors of his sway, But is a god again to-day. Ah, who will give us back the past? Ah woe, that youth should love to be Like this swift Thames that speeds so fast, And is so fain to find the sea,— [Pg 6568]That leaves this maze of shadow and sleep, These creeks down which blown blossoms creep, For breakers of the homeless deep. Then sit for ever, dear, in stone, As when you turned with half a smile, And I will haunt this islet lone, And with a dream my tears beguile; And in my reverie forget That stars and suns were made to set; That love grows cold, or eyes are wet. LYING IN THE GRASS Between two golden tufts of summer grass, I see the world through hot air as through glass, And by my face sweet lights and colors pass. Before me dark against the fading sky, I watch three mowers mowing, as I lie: With brawny arms they sweep in harmony. Brown English faces by the sun burnt red, Rich glowing color on bare throat and head,— My heart would leap to watch them, were I dead! And in my strong young living as I lie, I seem to move with them in harmony,— A fourth is mowing, and the fourth am I. The music of the scythes that glide and leap, The young men whistling as their great arms sweep, And all the perfume and sweet sense of sleep, The weary butterflies that droop their wings, The dreamy nightingale that hardly sings, And all the lassitude of happy things, Is mingling with the warm and pulsing blood, That gushes through my veins a languid flood, And feeds my spirit as the sap a bud. Behind the mowers, on the amber air, A dark-green beech wood rises, still and fair, A white path winding up it like a stair. [Pg 6569] And see that girl, with pitcher on her head, And clean white apron on her gown of red,— Her evensong of love is but half said: She waits the youngest mower. Now he goes; Her cheeks are redder than a wild blush-rose; They climb up where the deepest shadows close. But though they pass, and vanish, I am there. I watch his rough hands meet beneath her hair; Their broken speech sounds sweet to me like prayer. Ah! now the rosy children come to play, And romp and struggle with the new-mown hay; Their clear, high voices sound from far away. They know so little why the world is sad; They dig themselves warm graves, and yet are glad; Their muffled screams and laughter make me mad! I long to go and play among them there; Unseen, like wind, to take them by the hair, And gently make their rosy cheeks more fair.