The weariness of this dirt and labour, of this dirty, melting sky!
For hours we have carried great bundles of hay from barge to truck, and from truck to train.
The weariness of this dirt and labour! But—look! Last June those heavy dried bales waved and glittered in the fields of England!
Cinque-foil and clover, buttercups, fennel, thistle and rue—daisy and ragged robin, wild rose from the hedge, shepherd's purse and long sweet nodding stalks of grass!
Heart of me, heart of me, be not sick and faint though fingers and arms and head ache; you bear the gift of the glittering meadows of England. Here are bundles from Somerset, from Wales, from Hereford, Worcester, Gloucester—name we must love, scented with summer peace.
Handle them bravely, meadow-sweet, sorrel, lush, flag and arid knap-weed, flowers of marsh and cliff, handle them bravely!
Dear crushed flowers! And you, yet fragrant grasses, I stoop and kiss you furtively.
Dear gentle perished sisters, speak, whisper once more, tell me next June again you will dance and whisper in the wind.