I would have Wept.
97
But the oxen looked up as I spoke,
For a moment in mild surprise,
Then bent again to the yoke,
With peace in their dreaming eyes.
And a small brown bird on her nest
Hid her speckled eggs with care,
Lest one should chill while her mate
Sang high in the golden air.
Still the flower and tree ’neath the sun
Unfolded their buds to bloom;
And the fly, clad in sombre gray,
Danced over the faint perfume.
And the sun coming forth from a cloud
Shone fair on a smiling land.
I said: Hush, questioning heart;
’Tis you cannot understand.
