SOUVENIR OF MICHAEL DRAYTON

Scarce hath the crookèd scythe Duly been whetted When all the mowers blithe (By the storm letted, Crouching the shed beneath At the field’s margent) See the first fallen swathe Pelted with argent. White mist the valley blurs, White the horizon, Since the cloud skirmishers Sent their first spies on. Haste away, Waters grey, Spare of your shedding, Till we bestow our hay Safe in the steading.

Gild, sun, the pendent leaves Silverly dripping, Call the swifts from the eaves Screaming and dipping, Raise the green docks that be To the ground beaten, All the washed earth we see Comfort and sweeten; Till at soft interval On the small flowers, Drops from the thatch-ends fall— Spent are the showers. Haste away, Waters grey, Spare of your shedding, Till we bestow our hay Safe in the steading.

Soon may the whisp’ring blade Bow the grey grasses, Lo, the lush edge unfrayed Where the scythe passes! All with a stately speed Shorn and soft whistle Muted on nought of weed, Burdock nor thistle.— Grace hath possessed the sky, Hope hath o’er-spanned it, Parteth he hurriedly, Storm, the black bandit. Haste away, Waters grey, Spare of your shedding, Till we bestow our hay Safe in the steading.