MIDSUMMER NIGHT 143 

 was the earth that it knew, the east washed 

 with faint rosewater in the dayspring, the 

 lark-flight loosened upon the bosom of the 

 dawn wind, and the golden beams of the 

 sun breasting the hills of the morning. 

 It was but a moment since the wild men 

 had goaded the sullen oxen, and with rude 

 implements torn a living from the earth; 

 all the great power of the wheat rested 

 above the growing corn now, of kin to the 

 grains beaten by oxen, and later, by the 

 flails of the wretches who were ever hungry. 

 The moon floated in the nightpool with 

 the Swan, the distant roar of the surf floated 

 from over the clover fields, and still I lay 

 there, one with the Maker of Life ... a 

 white mistiness flapped in front, beating 

 broad pinions as it hovered, it dropped to 

 the earth, and a shrill scream trembled into 

 the night. Fluttering like a moth, the 

 ghostly barn owl struggled with the rat, 

 held it in a remorseless clutch of powerful 

 talons. Into the wheatfield the rat had 



