Last night as in my bed awake
I fretted for the day
I heard the landrail's constant crake
Among the unmown hay;

And in my head the thought that burned
And parched my lips and throat
Was like a wheel of fire that turned
On that hot aching note.

But with the crowing of the cock
The hours of waiting passed,
And slowly a shrill-chiming clock
Struck out the night at last.

I rose and soon my hot eyes roved
Over meadows dewy-deep,
That in the wind of morning moved
As if they turned from sleep;

And where the crimson-rambler wreathed
The casement of my room
On my hot brow the cool air breathed
As on each fading bloom.

I watched the martin wheel and poise
Above his nested mate,
When clear through morning's murmurous noise
I heard a clicking gate

As down the dipping meadow-road
He bore with easy pace
His shouldered scythe, and brightly glowed
The dawnlight on his face.

All morn with swinging chorus blithe,
Unwearied through cool hours,
Was heard the swishing of the scythe
Among the grass and flowers;

All morn behind the swaying row
Of shoulders brown and bare
I followed, glad at heart to know
He moved before me there;

And as I laboured with the rake
Among the stricken grass,
Lightfooted in the mowers' wake
The happy hours did pass.

Too quick they went, and all too soon
The hour of resting came,
When over withering fields the noon
Hung like a still blue flame.

For as in shadow green and cool
He sank down wearily
Beside an alder-shaded pool,
He never turned to me;

And though afar beneath the briar
I watched him where he lay,
He knew not that my eyes afire
Burned brighter than the day.

And yet so loudly in my breast
Beat my tormented heart,
As if to rouse him from his rest,
I thought to see him start

As one awaked from midnight sleep
By knocking in the dark;
But in his eyes' unclouded deep
There gleamed no kindling spark.

. . . . .

To-night no rails unresting crake
'Mid fallen grass and flowers;
Naught stirs, and yet I lie awake
And count the crawling hours;

And as I watch the glimmering light
I await dawn tremblingly,
Lest in the quiet of the night
His heart has turned to me —

Lest I should find the day has come,
As yet the day shall rise,
When he shall stand before me dumb.
The fire within his eyes.