THE THRESHING-FLOOR

There’s a white stone-paven floor Set in a jade-green field Where the spiked acacias yield A shadow, and the four Earthen pots on a round well-wheel Come up drippingly full and spill Where the white horse runs his circle round Drawing water for garden ground. The white foundation here Has ne’er held temple-plinth, But mint and terebinth Perfume is in the air. And here, at the harvest-time the wains Rattle along the sunburnt plains, And the peasant’s arms are bared to thresh Food from the golden barley mesh. Before the morning’s long Comes drowsy, sliding snatch Of primitive threshing-song; Down in the garden patch The murmurous sleepy drone of bees Blends with the stir of the poplar-trees, And the rustle of bundled grain Tossed from the wagon train. Ah! the Mavrodaphne wine Is fruity and sweet to taste, And the oranges are fine And the blocked Loukoúmi paste. But I long for a crust of peasant bread Eaten with honey from Parnes’ head, And I hunger the more and more At sight of the threshing-floor!

Over dripping washing-trough Bends my mother busy drubbing, Father’s fustanella rubbing With the dark soap, smeary—rough. There my goats go, wild careering From the sound of wagons, nearing. Oootz—Ella—Whooff—! Out of there, you silly kid, By the old soup-kettle hid.

That boy, lying in the thyme, Sheepskinned loafer in the grasses, He is carelessness sublime, Sunned in yellow iris masses. Thinks he of the dead men sleeping Far away from flocks he’s keeping, Piled in bloody mountain-passes? With the brutal guns again Booming: “Give us men! More men!”

Baby hanging from the tree, Peeps from out his bright bag-hollows, While the white dog rolls and wallows Bitten by an angry bee. Forth for those sheep he must sally, Where they by the cold brook dally. Oootz—Ella—Deee!— Now the fools, in silly mass, Scamper toward the mountain-pass.

Far off, on the dusty plain, Reels my drunk Wallachian, Coming up from town again. Drinking in the village khan, All our Balkan coin he’s spending; As his stupid way he’s wending I the future scan. Ugh! I hear those guns again Surly—growling: “Men! More men!”

Swift the smooth Peneios flows Smoky-white to sea’s blue gleaming. Where the battleships are steaming Ready for their foes, I should like to fight and bear me Fiercely. Nothing there would scare me. Ella—Ella—Pros! With this high-swung shepherd-stick That old bucking ram I’ll hit!

St. Spiridion! He beats That old ram as ’t were his woman! What a fine, big, brawny human Have I suckled at these teats! Ah! I have my mother-reasons To distrust Rumanian treasons, When our Council meets. Bah! those dirty guns again Booming: “Give us men! More men!” When my man comes, o’er and o’er I will bluster—Not will hunger Nor your beatings make me monger Sons to angry war. That brown boy, in sunshine dreaming, I’ll not feed him to the teeming Snorting cannon-maw! Move we now our tents again, Far from guns that roar: “More men!”