Beside the slew the poplars play
In double lines of silver-grey: —
A trembling in the silver trees
A shadow-trembling in the slew.
Standing clear above the hill
The snow-grey clouds are still,
Floating there idle as light;
Beyond, the sky is almost white
Under the pure deep zenith-blue.
Acres of summer-fallow meet
Acres of growing gold-green wheat
That ripen in the heat.
Where a disc-harrow tears the soil,
Up the long slope six horses toil,
The driver, one with the machine; —
The group is dimly seen

On a morning ramble I visit a great mountain,
The mountain far away in the empty azure.
Billowing mist spreads over a hundred leagues;
As the sun goes down I reach my goal at last.
At the valley's mouth I hear a bell sound;
By the wood's edge scent a breath of incense.
Leaning on my staff, I seek an old friend;
Having loosened the saddle, give my mount a rest.
The stone gate is hard by a chasm's brink;
A bamboo-lined path winds through the forest depths.
I enjoy meeting with a " Companion in the Law " ;
In " Pure Talk " we stay up until dawn.

There was chattering and jabbering and bellowing and growling,
And the sound of many waters and of many creatures howling
As the voices of creation all were lifted up together
In a universal chorus — " Did you ever see such weather? "

Beside the rail, despite the gale,
Old Noah took each ticket,
And registered each Beast and Bird
That passed inside the wicket.

And when at last they had made fast
As much as they could stow away,

I

Beside the Mead of Memories,
Where Church-way mounts to Moaning Hill,
The sad man sighed his phantasies:
He seems to sigh them still.

II

" 'Twas the Birth-tide Eve, and the hamleteers
Made merry with ancient Mellstock zest,
But the Mellstock quire of former years
Had entered into rest.

III

" Old Dewy lay by the gaunt yew tree,
And Reuben and Michael a pace behind,
And Bowman with his family

Beside the landsman knelt a dame,
And slowly pushed the pages o'er;
Still by the hearth-fire's spending flame
She waited, while a hollow roar
Came from the chimney, and the breath
Of twice seven hounds upon the floor;
And, save the old man's labored moan,
The night had no sound more.

The fire flickered; with a start
The master hound upflung his head;
Sudden he whined, when with one spring
Each hunter bounded from his bed,—
And through rent blind and bolted door
All voiceless every creature fled;

Beside dim wharves, the battered ships are dreaming,
The worn ships, the torn ships, with many a draggled mast
The gray old ships are musing of those creaming
Waters that weltered in the days long past.

Maybe they dream of how the idle ocean,
A glittering dragon, with rippling scales of gold,
Would writhe and twist with sleepy crafty motion,
Suddenly frothing where the hushed bark rolled.

How still they sway and think upon the glories
Of shimmering lagoons that lit the tranquil morn!
How soft they sigh, remembering the stories

God hath the whole world perfect made, & free;
His parts to th'vse of all. Men then, that be
Parts of that all, must as the generall sway
Of that importeth, willingly obay
In euerie thing, without their powres to change.
He that (vnpleasd to hold his place) will range,
Can in no other be containd, thats fit:
And so resisting all, is crusht with it.
But he that knowing how diuine a frame
The whole world is, and of it all can name
(Without selfe flatterie) no part so diuine
As he himselfe, and therefore will confine

The Western Course: a cicada's voice singing;
A southern cap: longing for home intrudes.
How can I bear those shadows of black locks
That come here to face my " Song of White Hair " ?
Dew heavy on it, can fly no farther toward me;
The wind strong, its echoes easily lost.
No one believes in nobility and purity —
On my behalf who will explain what's in my heart?

Beneath yon Larkspur's azure bells
That sun their bees in balmy air
In mould no more the Blue-Bird dwells
Though late he found interment there.

All stiff he lay beneath the Fir
When shrill the March piped overhead,
And Pity gave him sepulchre
Within the Garden's sheltered bed.

And soft she sighed--Too soon he came;
On wings of hope he met the knell;
His heavenly tint the dust shall tame;
Ah, some misgiving had been well.

But, look, the clear etherial hue
In June it makes the Larkspur's dower;

Beneath yon birch with silver bark,
And boughs so pendulous and fair,
The brook falls scatter'd down the rock:
And all is mossy there!

And there upon the moss she sits,
The Dark Ladie in silent pain;
The heavy tear is in her eye,
And drops and swells again.

Three times she sends her little page
Up the castled mountain's breast,
If he might find the Knight that wears
The Griffin for his crest.

The sun was sloping down the sky,
And she had linger'd there all day,
Counting moments, dreaming fears--