The sky is blue here, scarcely with a stain
Of grey for clouds: here the young grasses gain
A larger growth of green over this splinter
Fallen from the ruin. Spring seems to have told Winter
He shall not freeze again here. Tho' their loss
Of leaves is not yet quite repaired, trees toss
Sprouts from their boughs. The ash you called so stiff
Curves, daily, broader shadow down the cliff.

II. In Summer.

How the rooks caw, and their beaks seem to clank!

Let us just move out there, -- (it might be cool

Under those trees,) and watch how the thick tank

By the old mill is black, -- a stagnant pool

Of rot and insects. There goes by a lank

Dead hairy dog floating. Will Nature's rule

Of life return hither no more? The plank

Rots in the crushed weeds, and the sun is cruel.

130

III. The Breadth of Noon.

Long time I lay there, while a breeze would blow

From the south softly, and, hard by, a slender
Poplar swayed to and fro to it. Surrender

Was made of all myself to quiet. No
Least thought was in my mind of the least woe:

Yet the void silence slowly seemed to render
My calmness not less calm, but yet more tender,

And I was nigh to weeping. -- `Ere I go,'
I thought, `I must make all this stillness mine;

The sky's blue almost purple, and these three

Hills carved against it, and the pine on pine

The wood in their shade has. All this I see
So inwardly I fancy it may be

Seen thus of parted souls by their sunshine.'

IV. Sea-Freshness.

Look at that crab there. See if you can't haul

His backward progress to this spar of a ship
Thrown up and sunk into the sand here. Clip

His clipping feelers hard, and give him all
Your hand to gripe at: he'll take care not fall:

So, -- But with heed, for you are like to slip
In stepping on the plank's sea-slime. Your lip--

No wonder -- curves in mirth at the slow drawl
Of the squat creature's legs. We've quite a shine

Of waves round us, and here there comes a wind

So fresh it must bode us good luck. How long

Boatman, for one and sixpence? Line by line

The sea comes toward us sun-ridged. Oh! we sinned

Taking the crab out: let's redress his wrong.

V. The Fire Smouldering.

I look into the burning coals, and see

Faces and forms of things; but they soon pass,
Melting one into other: the firm mass

Crumbles, and breaks, and fades gradually,
Shape into shape as in a dream may be,

Into an image other than it was:
And so on till the whole falls in, and has

Not any likeness, -- face, and hand, and tree,

131

All gone. So with the mind: thought follows thought,

This hastening, and that pressing upon this,

A mighty crowd within so narrow room:
And then at length heavy-eyed slumbers come,

The drowsy fancies grope about, and miss

Their way, and what was so alive is nought.

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Read the first installment of "Fancies at Leisure" in Germ 2

Last modified 12/14/95