Act 4 — THE CORN-CRAKE

Here let the bliss of summer and her night Be on my heart as wide and pure as heaven; Now while o’er earth the tide of young delight Brims to the full, calm’d by the wizard Seven, And their high mistress, yon enchanted Moon; The air is faint, yet fresh as primrose buds, And dim with weft of honey-colour’d beams, A bride-robe for the new espousèd June, Who lies white-limbed among her flowers, nor dreams, Such a divine content her being floods.

Awake, awake! The silence hath a voice; Not thine, thou heart of fire, palpitating Until all griefs change countenance and rejoice, And all joys ache o’er-ripe since thou dost sing, Not thine this voice of the dry meadow-lands, Harsh iteration! note untuneable! Which shears the breathing quiet with a blade Of ragged edge! Say, wilt thou ne’er be still Crier in June’s high progress, whose commands Upon no heedless drowzed heart are laid?

Nay, cease not till thy breast disquieted Hath won a term of ease; the dewy grass Trackless at morn betrays not thy swift tread, And through smooth-closing air thy call-notes pass, To faint on yon soft-bosom’d pastoral steep Thee bird the Night accepts; and I, through thee, Reach to embalmèd hearts of summers dead, Feel round my feet old, inland meadows deep, And bow o’er flowers that not a leaf have shed, Nor once have heard moan of an alien sea.

Even while I muse thy halting-place doth shift, Now nearer, now more distant—I have seen When April, through her shining hair adrift, Gleams a farewell, and elms are fledged with green, The voiceful, wandering envoy of the Spring; Thee, never; though the mower’s scythe hath dashed Thy nest aside, but thou hast sped askant, Viewless; then last we lose thee, and thy wing Brushes Nilotic maize and thou dost chaunt Haply all night to stony ears of Pasht.

Ah, now an end to thy inveterate tale! The silence melts from the mid spheres of heaven; Enough! before this peace has time to fail From out my soul, or yon white cloud has driven Up the moon’s path I turn, and I will rest Once more with summer in my heart. Farewell! Shut are the wild-rose cups; no moth’s awhirr; My room will be moon-silvered from the west For one more hour; thy note shall be a burr To tease out thought and catch the slumbrous spell.