His locks like all a ravel-rope's-end, With hempen strands in spray-- Fallow, foam-fallow, hanks--fall'n off their ranks, Swung down at a disarray. Or like a juicy and jostling shock Of bluebells sheaved in May Or wind-long fleeces on the flock A day off shearing day. Then over his turned temples--here-- Was a rose, or, failing that, Rough-Robin or five-lipped campion clear For a beauty-bow to his hat, And the sunlight sidled, like dewdrops, like dandled diamonds Through the sieve of the straw of the plait. . . . . . . . . _64 The Woodlark_ _TEEVO cheetio cheevio chee:_ O where, what can that be? _Weedio-weedio:_ there again! So tiny a trickle of song-strain; And all round not to be found For brier, bough, furrow, or green ground Before or behind or far or at hand Either left either right Anywhere in the sunlight. Well, after all! Ah but hark-- 'I am the little woodlark. . . . . . . . To-day the sky is two and two With white strokes and strains of the blue . . . . . . . Round a ring, around a ring And while I sail (must listen) I sing . . . . . . . The skylark is my cousin and he Is known to men more than me . . . . . . . . . . when the cry within Says Go on then I go on Till the longing is less and the good gone But down drop, if it says Stop, To the all-a-leaf of the treetop And after that off the bough . . . . . . . I am so very, O so very glad That I do think there is not to be had . . . . . . . . . . The blue wheat-acre is underneath And the braided ear breaks out of the sheath, The ear in milk, lush the sash, And crush-silk poppies aflash, The blood-gush blade-gash Flame-rash rudred Bud shelling or broad-shed Tatter-tassel-tangled and dingle-a-dangled Dandy-hung dainty head. . . . . . . . And down ... the furrow dry Sunspurge and oxeye And laced-leaved lovely Foam-tuft fumitory . . . . . . . Through the velvety wind V-winged To the nest's nook I balance and buoy With a sweet joy of a sweet joy, Sweet, of a sweet, of a sweet joy Of a sweet--a sweet--sweet--joy.' _65 Moonrise_ I AWOKE in the Midsummer not to call night, |in the white and the walk of the morning: The moon, dwindled and thinned to the fringe | of a finger-nail held to the candle, Or paring of paradisaical fruit, | lovely in waning but lustreless, Stepped from the stool, drew back from the barrow, | of dark Maenefa the mountain; A cusp still clasped him, a fluke yet fanged him, | en- tangled him, not quit utterly. This was the prized, the desirable sight, | unsought, pre- sented so easily, Parted me leaf and leaf, divided me, | eyelid and eyelid of slumber. _66_