Rondeau—Across The Fields

ACROSS the fields like swallows fly Sweet thoughts and sad of days gone by, From Life’s broad highway turned away, Like children thought and memory play, Nor heed Time’s scythe though grass be high.

Beneath the blue and shoreless sky, Time is but told when seedlings dry By love’s light breath are blown like spray Across the fields.

Now comes the scent of fallen hay, And flowers bestrew the foot-worn clay, While summer breathes a passing sigh, As westward rolls the day’s gold eye, And Time with Labour ends his day Across the fields.