The Paddock.
Song of the White Clover.
Up from my sheets of green-and-gold,
And soft brown bed,
Straight in the Sun alert I hold
My happy head;
And see, beneath the stainless Blue,
Merry with Morning, quick with Dew,
The whole World springing up from sleep.
Eager, and new!
The Lark, already hid in height.
Rapturous sings;
The Bee, already, hangs on bright
Sun-warmed wings.
Veil-less the Mountains meet the day,
Little and light the Breezes play,
The early work of Morn is sped
Well on its way.
I, too, must fill with all my might,
Faithful, my place.
And flush with freshest green-and-white
This Paddock-space.
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