ACROSS THE DYKES.
The dykes half bare are lying in the bath
Of quivering sunlight on this Sunday morn;
And bobolinks aflock make sweet the worn
Old places where two centuries of swath
Have fallen to earth before the mowers' path.
Across the dykes the bell's low sound is borne
From green Grand-Pré, abundant with the corn,
With milk and honey which it always hath.
And now I hear the Angelus ring far;
See faith bow many a head that suffered wrong
Near all these plains they wrested from the tide.
The visions of their last great sorrows mar
The greenness of these meadows; in the song
Of birds I feel a tear that has not dried.
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