Ii

And now he wipes his hand along The beaded fire of his brow Hard toil has heated; and the strong Face flushes fuller health as now He fills his hay-fork to the prong, And, tossing it, again doth bow.

And now he rests, and looks away Across the sun-fierce hills and meads No rolling cloud has cooled to-day; And from his face the brawny beads Drip; and he marks the heaps of hay, The fields of corn, the fields of weeds.

At last he sees the tempest build Black battlements along the west, Black breastworks that are thunder filled; And bares his brow; and on his chest The sweat of toil is cooled; and stilled The pulse of toil within his breast.

A strong wind brings the odorous death Of far hay-meadows, and the scent Is good within his nostrils’ breath: The mighty trees are bowed, that leant For no man, as when Power saith “Bow down!” and stalwart men are bent.

He laughs, long-gazing as he goes Along the elder-sweetened lane: He feels the storm wind as it blows Across the sheaves of golden grain, And stops to pull one bramble-rose, And watch the swiftly coming rain.

And there, ’mid locust trees, the farm Dreams in a martin-haunted place: He marks the far-off streaks of storm That, driven of the thunder, race: He sees his child upon her arm, And in the door his wife’s fair face.