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 low 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 yet burns red;
Before all the bats have dropped from the bough
Into the cool of night--if she came to me now!

The horses are untackled, the chattering machine
Is still at last. If she would come,
I would gather up the warm hay from
The hill-brow, and lie in her lap till the green
Sky ceased to quiver, and lost its tired sheen.

I should like to drop
On the hay, with my head on her knee
And lie stone still, while she
Breathed quiet above me--we could stop
Till the stars came out to see.

I should like to lie still
As if I was dead--but feeling
Her hand go stealing
Over my face and my hair until
This ache was shed.

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