The Folk-Mote By The River
It was up in the morn we rose betimes
From the hall-floor hard by the row of limes.
It was but John the Red and I,
And we were the brethren of Gregory;
And Gregory the Wright was one
Of the valiant men beneath the sun,
And what he bade us that we did
For ne’er he kept his counsel hid.
So out we went, and the clattering latch
Woke up the swallows under the thatch.
It was dark in the porch, but our scythes we felt,
And thrust the whetstone under the belt.
Through the cold garden boughs we went
Where the tumbling roses shed their scent.
Then out a-gates and away we strode
O’er the dewy straws on the dusty road,
And there was the mead by the town-reeve’s close
Where the hedge was sweet with the wilding rose.
Then into the mowing grass we went
Ere the very last of the night was spent.
Young was the moon, and he was gone,
So we whet our scythes by the stars alone:
But or ever the long blades felt the hay
Afar in the East the dawn was grey.
Or ever we struck our earliest stroke
The thrush in the hawthorn-bush awoke.
While yet the bloom of the swathe was dim
The black-bird’s bill had answered him.
Ere half of the road to the river was shorn
The sunbeam smote the twisted thorn.
Now wide was the way ’twixt the standing grass
For the townsfolk unto the mote to pass,
And so when all our work was done
We sat to breakfast in the sun,
[...] Read more
poem by William Morris
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
