Harold Edward Monro

O gentle vision in the dawn: My spirit over faint cool water glides. Child of the day,

The holy boy Went from his mother out in the cool of the day Over the sun-parched fields

You little friend, your nose is ready; you sniff, Asking for that expected walk, (Your nostrils full of the happy rabbit-whiff)

Since man has been articulate, Mechanical, improvidently wise, (Servant of Fate),

They are the angels of that watery world, With so much knowledge that they just aspire To move themselves on golden fins,

I Fit for perpetual worship is the power That holds our bodies safely to the earth.

It is the sacred hour: above the far Low emerald hills that northward fold, Calmly, upon the blue the evening star

The tough hand closes gently on the load; Out of the mind, a voice Calls 'Lift!' and the arms, remembering well their work,

When the tea is brought at five o'clock, And all the neat curtains are drawn with care, The little black cat with bright green eyes

Nymph, nymph, what are your beads? Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them? Give them me.

'Tell me about that harvest field.' Oh! Fifty acres of living bread. The colour has painted itself in my heart;

When you have tidied all things for the night, And while your thoughts are fading to their sleep, You'll pause a moment in the late firelight,

What I saw was just one eye In the dawn as I was going: A bird can carry all the sky

Here is the soundless cypress on the lawn: It listens, listens. Taller trees beyond Listen. The moon at the unruffled pond

This might have been a place for sleep, But, as from that small hollow there Hosts of bright thistledown begin

I If suddenly a clod of earth should rise, And walk about, and breathe, and speak, and love,

Here, in this other world, they come and go With easy dream-like movements to and fro. They stare through lovely eyes, yet do not seek

I The train! The twelve o'clock for paradise. Hurry, or it will try to creep away.