The August Weeds

by Robert Laurence Binyon

Laurence Binyon

I wandered between woods
On a grassy down, when still
Clouds hung after rain
Over hollow and hill;
The blossom--time was over,
The singing throats dumb,
And the year's coloured ripeness
Not yet come.
And all at unawares,
Surprising the stray sight,
Ran straight into my heart
Like a beam, delight.
Negligent weeds ravelled
The green edge of the copse,
Whitely, dimly, sparkling
With a million drops.
And sudden fancy feigned
What strange beauty would pass
Did but a shiver of wind
Tremble through the grass,
Shaking the poised, round drops
Spilled and softly rolled
A--glitter from the ragworth's
Roughened gold;
From the rusted scarlet
Of tall sorrel seed,
And fretted tufts, frost--gray,
Of the silver--weed,
And from purple--downed thistle
Towering dewy over
Yellow--cupped spurge
And the drenched, sweet clover.
But all were motionless:
Not one breath shed
Those little pale pearls
That an elf might thread
Under a fading moon
By an old thorn--tree
For the witching throat
Of Nimuë.

Last updated January 14, 2019