Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/196

 With apples and romance and ignorance, And the still smoke from Archibald's clay pipe. There was a stillness over everything, As if the spirit of heat had laid its hand Upon the world and hushed it; and I felt Within the mightiness of the white sun That smote the land around us and wrought out A fragrance from the trees, a vital warmth And a glory for the world beyond the forest. Isaac and Archibald, the burning bush, The Trojans and the walls of Jericho, Were beautifully fused, and all went well Till Archibald began to fret for Isaac And said it was a master day for sunstroke. That was enough to make a mummy smile, I thought; and I remained hilarious, In face of all precedence and respect, Till Isaac (who had come to us unheard) Found he had no tobacco, looked at me Peculiarly, and asked of Archibald What ailed the boy to make him chirrup so. From that he told us what a blessed world The Lord had given us. "But, Archibald," He added, with a sweet severity That made me think of peach-skins and goose-flesh, "I'm half afraid you cut those oats of yours A day or two before they were well set." "They were set well enough," said Archibald, And I remarked the process of his nose Before the words came out. "But never mind Your neighbor's oats : you stay here in the shade And rest yourself while I go find the cards. We'll have a little game of seven-up