Horae

I. It pales. As if a look,
Invisible, came in the east.

In some far vale a rooster
Expels his cry of life.

Now dark but not formless
On the grey meads the trees
Lean and are looming soft.

In those towers of night
Ruffling things awake
Their declaration and chuckle.

Starpoint fades from the dew.

To every mile that sleeps
The cock’s barbaric cry
And the wind comes cool.

Shiver of day break.

II. Now air, gentle pillager
In the citadels of summer,
Lifts a leaf here and there.
Sun holds the cornfield still
In his dream of the real.

From a wavering of bees
One droning steers away,
Elated in his golden car.
A cow stumbles and streams,
Reaching the meadow.

Tiny brutality in the grass
Manipulates the foe
Sawing and champing. Oh, soundless.

What burning contemplation
Rests in these distances?
What is seen by the leaves
Mirrored as in fair water
Millionfold?—as the eye of man
Finds itself in myriads.

III. The limber shadow is longer.
Air moves now breathing
In the plumes of corn.

Gnats on their elastics
Are busy with evening.
Heavy with night, the owl
Floats through the forest.

Shadow takes all the grass.
Beyond indigo mountains
Golden sheaves are fastened
Lightly on the infinite
West. What joy or feast
Has these for ornament?
What reclining host?

They sink away in peace.