Ploughman, whose gnarly hand yet kindly wheeled <br />Thy plough to ring this solitary tree <br /> With clover, whose round plat, reserved a-field, <br />In cool green radius twice my length may be -- <br /> Scanting the corn thy furrows else might yield, <br />To pleasure August, bees, fair thoughts, and me, <br /> That here come oft together -- daily I, <br /> Stretched prone in summer's mortal ecstasy, <br />Do stir with thanks to thee, as stirs this morn <br /> With waving of the corn. <br /> <br /> Unseen, the farmer's boy from round the hill <br />Whistles a snatch that seeks his soul unsought, <br /> And fills some time with tune, howbeit shrill; <br />The cricket tells straight on his simple thought -- <br /> Nay, 'tis the cricket's way of being still; <br />The peddler bee drones in, and gossips naught; <br /> Far down the wood, a one-desiring dove <br /> Times me the beating of the heart of love: <br />And these be all the sounds that mix, each morn, <br /> With waving of the corn. <br /> <br /> From here to where the louder passions dwell, <br />Green leagues of hilly separation roll: <br /> Trade ends where yon far clover ridges swell. <br />Ye terrible Towns, ne'er claim the trembling soul <br /> That, craftless all to buy or hoard or sell, <br />From out your deadly complex quarrel stole <br /> To company with large amiable trees, <br /> Suck honey summer with unjealous bees, <br />And take Time's strokes as softly as this morn <br /> Takes waving of the corn.<br /><br />Sidney Lanier<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-waving-of-the-corn/
