Autumn in the Weald
Come, for here the lazy nightWith rosy camp-fires blossoms bright,The stream half-runs with flute-like trillThrough the quaint channels of the millAnd, to accentuate the hush,Through fine bamboo and needled rushA water-spirit ferries. Come,And see how kindly all's at home.No sweeter things than these I thyme,And this by much their sweetest time.Then, sweet, agree, and by this gateWatch each one gathering to his mate,To nest or warren, bough or byre—The dearness answers all desire,When all, the shepherd, dog and sheepWith sleep-like motions welcome sleep;The elm-tree's momentary stirAnd freshened sluices yield to her,And though the fire-side shout and songDefy her there, they will not long.
The bonfire's crackling zeal dies down, The laughing supper-groups ate gone,The fair falls quiet in Yalding town, Alone with the mist I linger on.
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