Turmut-Hoeing

I straightened my back from turmut-hoeing And saw, with suddenly opened eyes, Tall trees, a meadow ripe for mowing, And azure June’s cloud-circled skies.

Below, the earth was beautiful Of touch and colour, fair each weed, But Heaven’s high beauty held me still, Only of music had I need.

And the white-clad girl at the old farm, Who smiled and looked across at me, Dumb was held by that strong charm Of cloud-ships sailing a foamless sea.