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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=348090" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Among The Timothy</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Long hours ago, while yet the morn was blithe,<br>Nor sharp athirst had drunk the beaded dew,<br>A reaper came, and swung his cradled scythe<br>Around this stump, and, shearing slowly, drew<br>Far round among the clover, ripe for hay,<br>A circle clean and grey;<br>And here among the scented swathes that gleam,<br>Mixed with dead daisies, it is sweet to lie<br>And watch the grass and the few-clouded sky,<br>Nor think but only dream.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For when the noon was turning, and the heat<br>Fell down most heavily on field and wood,<br>I too came hither, borne on restless feet,<br>Seeking some comfort for an echoing mood.<br>Ah, I was weary of the drifting hours,<br>The echoing city towers,<br>The blind grey streets, the jingle of the throng,<br>Weary of hope that like a shape of stone,<br>Sat near at hand without a smile or moan,<br>And weary most of song.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And those high moods of mine that someone made<br>My heart a heaven, opening like a flower,<br>A sweeter world where I in wonder strayed,<br>Begirt with shapes of beauty and the power<br>Of dreams that moved through that enchanted clime<br>With changing breaths of rhyme,<br>Were all gone lifeless now like those white leaves.<br>That hang all winter, shivering dead and blind<br>Among the sinewy beeches in the wind,<br>That vainly calls and grieves.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah! I will set no more mine overtasked brain<br>To barren search and toil that beareth nought,<br>Forever following with sorefooted pain<br>The crossing pathways of unbourned thought;<br>But let it go, as one that hath no skill,<br>To take what shape it will,<br>An ant slow-burrowing in the earthy gloom,<br>A spider bathing in the dew at morn,<br>Or a brown bee in wayward fancy borne<br>From hidden bloom to bloom.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hither and thither o'er the rocking grass<br>The little breezes, blithe as they are blind,<br>Teasing the slender blossoms pass and pass,<br>Soft-footed children of the gipsy wind,<br>To taste of every purple-fringed head<br>Before the bloom is dead;<br>And scarcely heed the daisies that, endowed<br>With stems so short they cannot see, up-bear<br>Their innocent sweet eyes distressed, and stare<br>Like children in a crowd.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not far to fieldward in the central heat,<br>Shadowing the clover, a pale poplar stands<br>With glimmering leaves that, when the wind comes, beat<br>Together like innumerable small hands,<br>And with the calm, as in vague dreams astray,<br>Hang wan and silver-grey;<br>Like sleepy maenads, who in pale surprise,<br>Half-wakened by a prowling beast, have crept<br>Out of the hidden covert, where they slept,<br>At noon with languid eyes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The crickets creak, and through the noonday glow,<br>That crazy fiddler of the hot mid-year,<br>The dry cicada plies his wiry bow<br>In long-spun cadence, thin and dusty sere:<br>From the green grass the small grasshoppers' din<br>Spreads soft and silvery thin:<br>And ever and anon a murmur steals<br>Into mine ears of toil that moves alway,<br>The crackling rustle of the pitch-forked hay<br>And lazy jerk of wheels.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As so I lie and feel the soft hours a wane,<br>To wind and sun and peaceful sound laid bare,<br>That aching dim discomfort of the brain<br>Fades off unseen, and shadowy-footed care<br>Into some hidden corner creeps at last<br>To slumber deep and fast;<br>And gliding on, quite fashioned to forget,<br>From dream to dream I bid my spirit pass<br>Out into the pale green ever-swaying grass<br>To brood, but no more fret.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And hour by hour among all shapes that grow<br>Of purple mints and daisies gemmed with gold<br>In sweet unrest my visions come and go;<br>I feel and hear and with quiet eyes behold;<br>And hour by hour, the ever-journeying sun,<br>In gold and shadow spun,<br>Into mine eyes and blood, and through the dim<br>Green glimmering forest of the grass shines down,<br>Till flower and blade, and every cranny brown,<br>And I are soaked with him.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Archibald+Lampman">Archibald Lampman</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=348090" data-title="Among The Timothy de Archibald Lampman" data-description="Long hours ago, while yet the morn was blithe,
Nor sharp athirst had drunk the beaded dew,
A reaper came, and swung his cradled scythe
Around this stump, and, shearing slowly, drew
Far round among the clover, ripe for hay,
A circle clean and grey;..."></div>
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