““Dog-tired" If she would come to me here Now the sunken swaths Are glittering paths To the sun, and the swallows cut clear Into the setting sun! if she came to me here! If she would come to me now, Before the last-mown harebells are dead; While that vetch-clump still burns red! Before all the bats have dropped from the bough To cool in the night; if she came to me now! The horses are untackled, the chattering machine Is still at last. If she would come We could gather up the dry hay from The hill-brow, and lie quite still, till the green Sky ceased to quiver, and lost its active sheen. I should like to drop On the hay, with my head on her knee, And lie dead still, while she Breathed quiet above me; and the crop Of stars grew silently. I should like to lie still As if I was dead; but feeling Her hand go stealing Over my face and my head, until This ache was shed.””
