Weald
Still is the leaden night:
The film-eyed moon
Spills hardly any light,
But nods to sleep—And soon
Through five broad parishes there is no sound
But the far melancholy wooing
Of evil-minded cats; and the late shoeing
Of some unlucky filly by the ford.
For twenty miles abroad there is no moving,
But for the uncomfortable hooving
Of midnight cows a-row in Parson’s Lag:
—That; and the slow twist of water round a snag.
The silver mist that slumbers in the hollow
Dreams of a breeze, and turns upon its side,
So sleep uneasy: but no breezes follow,
Only the moon blinks slowly thrice, wan-eyed.
—I think this is the most unhappy night
Since hot-cheeked Hecuba wept in the dawn.
—There never was a more unhappy night,
Not that when Hero’s lamp proved unavailing,
Nor that when Bethlehem was filled with wailing ...
... There is no reason for unhappiness,
Save that the saddened stars have hid their faces,
And that dun clouds usurp their brilliant places,
And that the wind lacks even strength to sigh.
And yet, as if outraged by some long tune
A dog cries dolefully, green-eyed in the moon ...
The Jumping-Bean
(A curious bean, with a small maggot in it, who comes to life and tumbles his dwelling at the stimulus of warmth)
Sun in a warm streak
Striping the plush:
Catch breath, hold finger tight:
All delight hush.
Dance, small grey thing
Sleek in the warm sun:
Roll around, to this, to that,
—Rare wormy fun!
Hot sun applauds thee:
Warm fingers press
To wake the small life within
Thy rotund dress.
Alack! Have years in cupboard,
In chill and dark,
Stifled thy discontent?
Snufft thy spark?
Liest thou stark, stiff,
There in thy bed?
Weep then a dirge for him:
Poor Bean’s dead!