The Depths of the Grass

by Michael Field (1846-1914 & 1862-1913)

Look, in the early light,    Down to the infinite    Depths at the deep grass-roots;       Where the sun shoots In golden veins, as looking through    A dear pool one sees it do;    Where campion drifts Its bladders, iris-brinded, through the rifts       Of rising, falling seed   That the winds lightly scour—Down to the matted earth where over    And over again crow’s-foot and clover      And pink bindweed      Dimly, steadily flower.

Oh, Sweet Content!

by William Henry Davies (1871-1940)

Oh, sweet content, that turns the labourer's sweatTo tears of joy, and shines the roughest face;How often have I sought you high and low,And found you still in some lone quiet place;

Here, in my room, when full of happy dreams,With no life heard beyond that merry soundOf moths that on my lighted ceiling kissTheir shadows as they dance and dance around;

Or in a garden, on a summer's night,When I have seen the dark and solemn airBlink with the blind bats' wings, and heaven's bright faceTwitch with the stars that shine in thousands there.

Summer Wind

by William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878)

It is a sultry day; the sun has drunkThe dew that lay upon the morning grass;There is no rustling in the lofty elmThat canopies my dwelling, and its shadeScarce cools me. All is silent, save the faintAnd interrupted murmur of the bee,Settling on the sick flowers, and then againInstantly on the wing. The plants aroundFeel the too potent fervors: the tall maizeRolls up its long green leaves; the clover droopsIts tender foliage, and declines its blooms.But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills,With all their growth of woods, silent and stern,As if the scorching heat and dazzling lightWere but an element they loved. Bright clouds,Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven—Their bases on the mountains—their white topsShining in the far ether—fire the airWith a reflected radiance, and make turnThe gazer’s eye away. For me, I lieLanguidly in the shade, where the thick turf,Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun,Retains some freshness, and I woo the windThat still delays his coming. Why so slow,Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earthCoolness and life! Is it that in his cavesHe hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge,The pine is bending his proud top, and nowAmong the nearer groves, chestnut and oakAre tossing their green boughs about. He comes;Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves!The deep distressful silence of the sceneBreaks up with mingling of unnumbered soundsAnd universal motion. He is come,Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,And bearing on their fragrance; and he bringsMusic of birds, and rustling of young boughs,And sound of swaying branches, and the voiceOf distant waterfalls. All the green herbsAre stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers,By the road-side and the borders of the brook,Nod gayly to each other; glossy leavesAre twinkling in the sun, as if the dewWere on them yet, and silver waters breakInto small waves and sparkle as he comes.