WHEATFIELDS 



more than five months since, that, leaning against 

 the gate there, I watched a lark and his affianced 

 on the ground among the grey stubble of last year 

 still standing. 



His crest was high and his form upright, he ran 

 a little way and then sang, went on again and sang 

 again to his love, moving parallel with him. Then 

 passing from the old dead stubble to fresh-turned 

 furrows, still they went side by side, now down in 

 the valley between the clods, now mounting the 

 ridges, but always together, always with song and 

 joy, till I lost them across the brown earth. But 

 even then from time to time came the sweet voice, 

 full of hope in coming summer. 



The day declined, and from the clear, cold sky 

 of March the moon looked down, gleaming on the 

 smooth planed furrow where the plough had passed. 

 Scarce had she faded in the dawn ere the lark sang 

 again, high in the morning sky. The evenings 

 became dark ; still he rose above the shadows and 

 the dusky earth, and his song fell from the bosom 

 of the night. With full untiring choir the joyous 

 host heralded the birth of the corn ; the slender, 

 forceless seed leaves which came gently up till they 

 had risen above the proud crests of the lovers. 



Time advanced, and the bare mounds about the 

 field, carefully cleaned by the husbandman, were 

 covered again with wild herbs and plants, like a 

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