THE IDYLL OF THE STANDING STONE

The teasel and the horsemint spread

The hillside as with sunset, sown

With blossoms, o'er the Standing-Stone

That ripples in its rocky bed:

There are no treasuries that hold

Gold richer than the marigold

That crowns its sparkling head.

‘ Tis harvest time: a mower stands

Among the morning wheat and whets

His scythe, and for a space forgets

The labor of the ripening lands;

Then bends, and through the dewy grain

His long scythe hisses, and again

He swings it in his hands.

And she beholds him where he mows

On acres whence the water sends

Faint music of reflecting bends

And falls that interblend with flows:

She stands among the old bee-gums,—

Where all the apiary hums,—

A simple bramble-rose.

She hears him whistling as he leans,

And, reaping, sweeps the ripe wheat by;

She sighs and smiles, and knows not why,

Nor what her heart's disturbance means:

He whets his scythe, and, resting, sees

Her rose-like‘ mid the hives of bees,

Beneath the flowering beans.

The peacock-purple lizard creeps

Along the rail; and deep the drone

Of insects makes the country lone

With summer where the water sleeps:

She hears him singing as he swings

His scythe — who thinks of other things

Than toil, and, singing, reaps.