Poems (Hardy)/In the field of February

by Irenè Hardy

IN THE FIELD IN FEBRUARY

CREEP, little mouse, clear out in the sun,
Unafraid, to yon moss-tuft; stop to nibble and run
Over knot-grass, in and out, under sheaves
Of gray weeds, among silky long leaves
Of wild oats, faded white in the rain,—
Stop to nibble in peace; make what gain
Of the sunshine thou canst; so will I,
Little friend, unaware as thou of the world;
Unaware, just an hour, of all but the sky
And the good sweet earth at my feet,
Where the springtime and harvest are curled,
Safe in the round of a seed thou mayst eat
Even now as a morsel, yet diminish thy share
In what is to come not one little meal,—
So full has been the sowing,
So great has been the knowing
Of all that 's good and fair.

There, where our springtime and harvest in keeping
Lie, in the root of the flower, in the seed of the grass,
In the hue of the ground and the moss of the rock,
Thou, little velvet-foot, art over-prying, over-creeping;
No fear hast thou that food will fail thee,
No thought can come or dread assail thee,
While this sunny promise of the spring
Gives thee warmth for wandering.
The sun himself constraint shall feel,
The stars shall lend themselves for clock,
The moon unbalance the world's whole sea
When the frost sets forth with gnome-like tread
Boulder by boulder, block by block,
To rend and shock
Granite and shale to make our bread.

Yet dare we boast out of our narrow wits
That we are favorites
Of law? Not while Nurse Nature sits
At times and frowns on thee and me,—
Not unaware, when all is said,—
Indifferent, clifflike, though I be ground
To dust, or thou be 'gulfed in serpent's maw,
Or either inchmeal chopped to gain
For some pert science one more note:
"Something smaller and more nearly round
The foramen, here, than in Peromyseus found!"

Little comrade, housed to rest,
I forbear to know thy runway, seek thy nest;
So wend by and shut my eyes
To the gentle enterprise
That has found thee shelter here.
Thanks for pleasure, friendship, peace
And all that gave the thought release.
Thou and I have lives that run
Safely coursing with the sun;
Thou and I may sleep or wake;
Day of judgment shall not break
Ere, recorded in our sphere,
Each shall in his place appear,—
Thou as safe as I, and I
Safe, because nor Life, nor Death,
Nor other creature God has made
That lives a spirit, or draws breath,
Shall molest or make afraid.

Now along the brown-gray plain
Stripes of sunlight, streams of mist,
Seem to waver, seem to float;
Purple are the hills, an amethyst
Black Mountain is, and the further ridges
Woven into one by fog's fantastic bridges,
Veil their redwoods, pass from sight;
So foregather clouds and night.