Into the cool of night—if she came to me now!
The horses are untackled, the chattering machine
Is still at last. If she would come,
I would gather up the warm hay from
The hill-brow, and lie in her lap till the green
Sky ceased to quiver, and lost its tired sheen.
I should like to drop
On the hay, with my head on her knee
And lie stone still, while she
Breathed quiet above me—we could stop