The summer field is parched with evil fire, <br />And from a shoreland trail of trodden clover <br />I saw my head in waters thick with mire <br />That wrath of far-off thunder dimmed with red. <br />The mornings after frantic nights are dread: <br />The cherished gardens turned to stifling stall, <br />Untimely snow of bane the trees filmed over, <br />And upward rose the lark with hopeless call. <br /> <br />Then through the land on weightless soles you stray, <br />And bright it grows with colors you have laid, <br />You bid us pluck the fruits from joyous spray, <br />And rout the shadows lurking in the night… <br />Did I not weave-you and your tranquil light- <br />This crown in thanks, who ever could have known <br />That more than sun, long days for me you rayed, <br />And evenings more than any starry zone.<br /><br />Stefan Anton George<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/giving-thanks-10/
