Archibald Lampman - Among the Timothy lyrics

Long hours ago, while yet the morn was blithe, Nor sharp athirst had drunk the beaded dew, A reaper came, and swung his cradled scythe Around this stump, and, shearing slowly, drew Far round among the clover, ripe for hay, A circle clean and grey; And here among the scented swathes that gleam, Mixed with dead daisies, it is sweet to lie And watch the gra** and the few-clouded sky, Nor think but only dream. For when the noon was turning, and the heat Fell down most heavily on field and wood, I too came hither, borne on restless feet, Seeking some comfort for an echoing mood. Ah, I was weary of the drifting hours, The echoing city towers, The blind grey streets, the jingle of the throng, Weary of hope that like a shape of stone, Sat near at hand without a smile or moan, And weary most of song. And those high moods of mine that someone made My heart a heaven, opening like a flower, A sweeter world where I in wonder strayed, Begirt with shapes of beauty and the power Of dreams that moved through that enchanted clime With changing breaths of rhyme, Were all gone lifeless now like those white leaves. That hang all winter, shivering dead and blind Among the sinewy beeches in the wind, That vainly calls and grieves. Ah! I will set no more mine overtasked brain To barren search and toil that beareth nought, Forever following with sorefooted pain The crossing pathways of unbourned thought; But let it go, as one that hath no sk**, To take what shape it will, An ant slow-burrowing in the earthy gloom, A spider bathing in the dew at morn, Or a brown bee in wayward fancy borne From hidden bloom to bloom. Hither and thither o'er the rocking gra** The little breezes, blithe as they are blind, Teasing the slender blossoms pa** and pa**, Soft-footed children of the gipsy wind, To taste of every purple-fringed head Before the bloom is dead; And scarcely heed the daisies that, endowed With stems so short they cannot see, up-bear Their innocent sweet eyes distressed, and stare Like children in a crowd. Not far to fieldward in the central heat, Shadowing the clover, a pale poplar stands With glimmering leaves that, when the wind comes, beat Together like innumerable small hands, And with the calm, as in vague dreams astray, Hang wan and silver-grey; Like sleepy maenads, who in pale surprise, Half-wakened by a prowling beast, have crept Out of the hidden covert, where they slept, At noon with languid eyes. The crickets creak, and through the noonday glow, That crazy fiddler of the hot mid-year, The dry cicada plies his wiry bow In long-spun cadence, thin and dusty sere: From the green gra** the small gra**hoppers' din Spreads soft and silvery thin: And ever and anon a murmur steals Into mine ears of toil that moves alway, The crackling rustle of the pitch-forked hay And lazy jerk of wheels. As so I lie and feel the soft hours a wane, To wind and sun and peaceful sound laid bare, That aching dim discomfort of the brain Fades off unseen, and shadowy-footed care Into some hidden corner creeps at last To slumber deep and fast; And gliding on, quite fashioned to forget, From dream to dream I bid my spirit pa** Out into the pale green ever-swaying gra** To brood, but no more fret. And hour by hour among all shapes that grow Of purple mints and daisies gemmed with gold In sweet unrest my visions come and go; I feel and hear and with quiet eyes behold; And hour by hour, the ever-journeying sun, In gold and shadow spun, Into mine eyes and blood, and through the dim Green glimmering forest of the gra** shines down, Till flower and blade, and every cranny brown, And I are soaked with him.