Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/124

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shudder sweeps across the plain Still dark. It is the morning hour again, The hour when loved Pythagoras to muse, And Hesiod thoughtful walked on glittering dews, The hour when, tired of watching through the night The sombre heavens and each mysterious light, The herdsmen of Chaldea felt a chill, That horror of deep darkness, and that thrill, That comes o'er watchers when their forces fail. Down there, the fall of water in the vale Seems wrinkled in a thousand folds, and shines Like a rich satin garment. O'er the pines Upon the sad horizon gleams the Morn, Whose teeth the pearls, whose lips the roses scorn, An Eastern beauty—Ruth amid the corn. The oxen dream and bellow; bullfinch, thrush, And whistling jay awake in every bush; And from the wood in wild confusion blent Resound the chirp and hum from throats long pent; The sheep display their fleece across the fence, Not white as snow, but of a gold intense; And the young girl upon her bed of down, Fresh as a rose, black-eyed, in shadow brown, With shoulders white emerging from her gown,