Such times as windy moods do stir The foamless billows of the wheat, I glimpse the floating limbs of her In instant visions melting sweet. A milky shoulder’s dip and gleam, Or arms that clasp upon the air, An upturned face’s rosy dream, Half blinded by the sunlit hair. A haunting mermaid mid the swell And rapture of that summer sea; A siren of elusive spell, Born of the womb of mystery,— That, airy-limbed, swims fancy free, Glad in the summer’s perfect prime, Full-veined with life’s felicity And faith that knows no winter-time. At eve, when firefly lustre burns On that green flood like mirrored stars, Against the hush her faint voice yearns, Breathed to a light harp’s happy bars. Till sinks at last in sunset slow Midsummer’s long, luxurious day, And amber-red the ripe waves glow, Ah, then it is she slips away! For with the blighting dog-star’s blaze, The reapers wade within the wheat, And as they work in harvest ways, What amorous sights their vision cheat! For lo, upon some eddying wash Or hollow of the wind-swept grain, Her wafted fingers foam-like flash, Her laughing body drifts amain. It is the sylph’s divine farewell; A sighing ebbs along the wheat; Borne onward by a golden swell, She fades into the wrinkling heat.
The Spirit of the Wheat - U. Valentine
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