MEADOW GRASSES 87 



food, the finches came to sip, the hover- 

 flies fanned above the kingcups. Scarlet 

 soldier flies and little plain moths clung to 

 bennet-bloom and spray-like awn, the wind 

 sighed in the grasses as it shook the dust- 

 pollen from the heads. The meadow grasses 

 were timorous of the breeze, and trembled 

 at its coming, like the heart of a maiden 

 reluctant yet yearning : whispering to the 

 wind to bear the seeds, for the mowers 

 would come shortly. Over the water- 

 meadow the lapwings wheeled and spun 

 the lapwing holds the secret of the swamps 

 and boglands, and you hear it in his wild 

 voice as his wings sough above. In the 

 early spring he makes over the dull furrows 

 his plaintive music, climbing high and 

 diving to the ground as though it were 

 sweet ecstasy to fall, wing-crumpled and 

 broken-hearted, before his mate. Some- 

 thing in the call of the peewit fills me with 

 sadness, like the memory of those passed 



springs that were in boyhood so glamorous. 

 L.S. G 



