The cattle from their darkling lairs Heaved up and stretch'd themselves; Almost they trod at unawares Upon the busy elves That dropp'd their spools of gossamer, To dangle and to dry, And scurried home to the hollow fir Where the white owl winks an eye. Nor you, nor I, nor Burd so blithe Had driven them in this haste; But the old, old man, so lean and lithe, That afar behind us paced; So lean and lithe, with shoulder'd scythe, And a whetstone at his waist. Within the gate, in a grassy round Whence they had earliest flown, He upside-down'd his scythe, and ground Its edge with careful hone. But we heeded not, if we heard, the sound, For the world was ours alone; The world was ours!--and with a bound The conquering Sun upshone! And while as from his level ray We stood our eyes to screen. The world was not as yesterday Our homelier world had been-- So grey and golden-green it lay All in his quiet sheen, That wove the gold into the grey, The grey into the green. Sure never hand of Puck, nor wand Of Mab the fairies' queen, Nor prince nor peer of fairyland Had power to weave that wide riband Of the grey, the gold, the green. But the Gods of Greece had been before And walked our meads along, The great authentic Gods of yore That haunt the earth from shore to shore Trailing their robes of song. And where a sandall'd foot had brush'd, And where a scarfed hem, The flowers awoke from sleep and rush'd Like children after them. Pell-mell they poured by vale and stream, By lawn and steepy brae-- "O children, children! while you dream, Your flowers run all away!" But afar and abed and sleepily The children heard us call; And Burd so blithe and you and I Must be gatherers for all. The meadow-sweet beside the hedge, The dog-rose and the vetch, The sworded iris 'mid the sedge, The mallow by the ditch-- With these, and by the wimpling burn, Where the midges danced in reels, With the watermint and the lady fern We brimm'd out wicker creels: Till, all so heavily they weigh'd, On a bank we flung us down, Shook out our treasures 'neath the shade And wove this Triple Crown. Flower after flower--for some there were The noonday heats had dried, And some were dear yet could not bear A lovelier cheek beside, And some were perfect past compare-- Ah, darlings! what a world of care It cost us to decide! Natheless we sang in sweet accord, Each bending o'er her brede-- "O there be flowers in Oxenford, And flowers be north of Tweed, And flowers there be on earthly sward That owe no mortal seed!" And these, the brightest that we wove, Were Innocence and Truth, And holy Peace and angel Love, Glad Hope and gentle Ruth. Ah, bind them fast with triple twine Of Memory, the wild woodbine That still, being human, stays divine, And alone is age's youth!...