So there's my year, the twelvemonth duly told
Since last I climbed this brow and gloated round
Upon the lands heaped with their wheaten gold
And now again they spread with wealth imbrowned
And thriftless I meanwhile
What honeycombs have I to take, what sheaves to pile?
I see some withered fruits upon my tree,
And gladly would selfkindness feign them sweet;
The bloom smelled heavenly, can those stragglers be
The fruit of that bright birth? And this wry wheat,
Can this be from those spires
Which I, or fancy, saw leap to the spring sun's fires?
I peer, I count, but anxious is not rich,
My harvest is not come, the weeds run high;
Even poison berries ramping from the clutch
Have stormed the undefended ridges by;
What Michaelmas is mine!
The fields I sought to serve, for sturdier tillage pine.
But hush-Earth's valleys sweet in leisure lie;
And I among them wandering up and down
Will taste their berries, like the bird or fly,
And of their gleaming make both feast and crown
The Sun's eye laughing looks.
The Earth accuses none that goes among her stooks.