Sing,
Then, Mary, to me thro' the dark:
But kiss me first: my hand shall mark
Time, pressing yours the while I hark.
IV. Sheer Waste
Is it a little thing to lie down here
Beside the water, looking into it,
And see there grass and fallen leaves interknit,
And small fish sometimes passing thro' some bit
Of tangled grass where there's an outlet clear?
And then a drift of wind perhaps will come,
And blow the insects hovering all about
Into the water. Some of them get out;
Others swim with sharp twitches; and you doubt
Whether of life or death for other some.
Meanwhile the blueflies sway themselves along
Over the water's surface, or close by;
Not one in ten beyond the grass will fly
That closely skirts the stream; nor will your eye
Meet any where the sunshine is not strong.
After a time you find, you know not how,
That it is quite a stretch of energy
To do what you have done unconsciously,--
That is, pull up the grass; and then you see
You may as well rise and be going now.
So, having walked for a few steps, you fall
Bodily on the grass under the sun,
And listen to the rustle, one by one,
Of the trees' leaves; and soon the wind has done
For a short space, and it is quiet all;
Except because the rooks will make a caw
Just now and then together: and the breeze
Soon rises up again among the trees,
Making the grass, moreover, bend and tease
Your face, but pleasantly.
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