He praised his land, his horses, his machines; He praised his ploughs, his cows, his hogs, his dogs; He praised his hens, his geese, his guinea-hens; His pigeons, who in session on their roofs Then from the plaintive mother's teat he took And naming those, his friends, for whom they were: Then crost the common into Darnley chase To show Sir Arthur's deer. In copse and fern Twinkled the innumerable ear and tail. Then, seated on a serpent-rooted beech, He pointed out a pasturing colt, and said: To learn the price, and what the price he ask'd, And how the bailiff swore that he was mad, But he stood firm; and so the matter hung; He gave them line and five days after that He met the bailiff at the Golden Fleece, Who then and there had offer'd something more, But he stood firm; and so the matter hung; He knew the man; the colt would fetch its price; He gave them line and how by chance at last (It might be May or April, he forgot, The last of April or the first of May) He found the bailiff riding by the farm, Then, while I breathed in sight of haven, he, Poor fellow, could he help it? recommenced, And ran thro' all the coltish chronicle, Arbaces, and Phenomenon, and the rest, Till, not to die a listener, I arose, And with me Philip, talking still; and so I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers; I move the sweet forget-me-nots I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, I make the netted sunbeam dance I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses; I loiter round my cresses; And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, Yes, men may come and go; and these are gone, All gone. My dearest brother, Edmund, sleeps, Not by the well-known stream and rustic spire, But unfamiliar Arno, and the dome Of Brunelleschi; sleeps in peace: and he, Poor Philip, of all his lavish waste of words I scraped the lichen from it: Katie walks By the long wash of Australasian seas Far off, and holds her head to other stars, And breathes in converse seasons. All are gone.' So Lawrence Aylmer, seated on a stile In the long hedge, and rolling in his mind A tonsured head in middle age forlorn, Mused, and was mute. On a sudden a low breath Of tender air made tremble in the hedge The fragile bindweed-bells and briony rings; And he look'd up. Waiting to pass. In much amaze he stared On eyes a bashful azure, and on hair In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the shell Divides three-fold to show the fruit within: Then, wondering, ask'd her Are you from the farm?' 'Yes' answer'd she.. Pray stay a little pardon me; What do they call you?'-'Katie.' strange. That were What surname?'-Willows.'-No!'- 'That is Indeed!' and here he look'd so self-perplext, That Katie laugh'd, and laughing blush'd, till he Who feels a glimmering strangeness in his dream. |