Shone there as always. They were never gone,
Those two, while August lasted; and while summer
Saddened on the stalk.
For rust had bent
The hayheads while he dreamed, and far to north
The feet of fall were coming. Daniel rose
Each day a wearier man, yet not apostate
Ever to his black anvil, where with the smith
He lost himself in lessons hot and cold.
And still the woman came to call him in.