A Hidden Life and Other Poems | Page 8

plenteous waters in the waste? If she had seen
her ploughman-lover go With his great stride across some lonely field,
Beneath the dark blue vault, ablaze with stars, And lift his full eyes to
earth's radiant roof In gladness that the roof was yet a floor For other
feet to tread, for his, one day? Or the emerging vision might reveal Him,
in his room, with space-compelling mind, Pursue, upon his slate, some
planet's course; Or read, and justify the poet's wrath, Or wise man's
slow conclusion; or, in dreams, All gently bless her with a trembling
voice For that old smile, that withered nevermore, That woke him,
smiled him into what he is; Or, kneeling, cry to God for better still.
Would those dark eyes have beamed with darker light? Would that fair
soul, all tired of emptiness, Have risen from the couch of its unrest,
And looked to heaven again, again believed In God's realities of life
and fact? Would not her soul have sung unto itself, In secret joy too

good for that vain throng: "I have a friend, a ploughman, who is wise,
And knoweth God, and goodness, and fair faith; Who needeth not the
outward shows of things, But worships the unconquerable truth: And
this man loveth me; I will be proud And humble--would he love me if
he knew?"
In the third year, a heavy harvest fell, Full filled, beneath the
reaping-hook and scythe. The men and maidens in the scorching heat
Held on their toil, lightened by song and jest; Resting at mid-day, and
from brimming bowl, Drinking brown ale, and white abundant milk;
Until the last ear fell, and stubble stood Where waved the forests of the
murmuring corn; And o'er the land rose piled the tent-like shocks, As
of an army resting in array Of tent by tent, rank following on rank;
Waiting until the moon should have her will Of ripening on the ears.
And all went well. The grain was fully ripe. The harvest carts Went
forth broad-platformed for the towering load, With frequent passage
'twixt homeyard and field. And half the oats already hid their tops, Of
countless spray-hung grains--their tops, by winds Swayed oft, and
ringing, rustling contact sweet; Made heavy oft by slow-combining
dews, Or beaten earthward by the pelting rains; Rising again in breezes
to the sun, And bearing all things till the perfect time-- Had hid, I say,
this growth of sun and air Within the darkness of the towering stack;
When in the north low billowy clouds appeared, Blue-based,
white-topped, at close of afternoon; And in the west, dark masses,
plashed with blue, With outline vague of misty steep and dell, Clomb
o'er the hill-tops; there was thunder there. The air was sultry. But the
upper sky Was clear and radiant.
Downward went the sun; Down low, behind the low and sullen clouds
That walled the west; and down below the hills That lay beneath them
hid. Uprose the moon, And looked for silence in her moony fields, But
there she found it not. The staggering cart, Like an o'erladen beast,
crawled homeward still, Returning light and low. The laugh broke yet,
That lightning of the soul, from cloudless skies, Though not so frequent,
now that labour passed Its natural hour. Yet on the labour went,
Straining to beat the welkin-climbing toil Of the huge rain-clouds,
heavy with their floods. Sleep, like enchantress old, soon sided with
The crawling clouds, and flung benumbing spells On man and horse.
The youth that guided home The ponderous load of sheaves, higher

than wont, Daring the slumberous lightning, with a start Awoke, by
falling full against the wheel, That circled slow after the sleepy horse.
Yet none would yield to soft-suggesting sleep, Or leave the last few
shocks; for the wild rain Would catch thereby the skirts of
Harvest-home, And hold her lingering half-way in the storm.
The scholar laboured with his men all night. Not that he favoured quite
this headlong race With Nature. He would rather say: "The night Is sent
for sleep, we ought to sleep in it, And leave the clouds to God. Not
every storm That climbeth heavenward, overwhelms the earth. And if
God wills, 'tis better as he wills; What he takes from us never can be
lost." But the old farmer ordered; and the son Went manful to the work,
and held his peace.
The last cart homeward went, oppressed with sheaves, Just as a moist
dawn blotted pale the east, And the first drops fell, overfed with mist,
O'ergrown and helpless. Darker grew the morn. Upstraining racks of
clouds, tumultuous borne Upon the turmoil of opposing winds, Met in
the zenith. And the silence ceased: The lightning brake, and flooded all
the earth, And its great roar of billows followed