The Idyll Of The Standing Stone

The teasel and the horsemint spread     The hillside as with sunset, sown     With blossoms, o'er the Standing-Stone     That ripples in its rocky bed:     There are no treasuries that hold     Gold richer than the marigold     That crowns its sparkling head.     'Tis harvest time: a mower stands     Among the morning wheat and whets     His scythe, and for a space forgets     The labor of the ripening lands;     Then bends, and through the dewy grain     His long scythe hisses, and again     He swings it in his hands.     And she beholds him where he mows     On acres whence the water sends     Faint music of reflecting bends     And falls that interblend with flows:     She stands among the old bee-gums, -     Where all the apiary hums, -     A simple bramble-rose.     She hears him whistling as he leans,     And, reaping, sweeps the ripe wheat by;     She sighs and smiles, and knows not why,     Nor what her heart's disturbance means:     He whets his scythe, and, resting, sees     Her rose-like 'mid the hives of bees,     Beneath the flowering beans.     The peacock-purple lizard creeps     Along the rail; and deep the drone     Of insects makes the country lone     With summer where the water sleeps:     She hears him singing as he swings     His scythe - who thinks of other things     Than toil, and, singing, reaps.