The summer field is parched with evil fire,
And from a shoreland trail of trodden clover
I saw my head in waters thick with mire
That wrath of far-off thunder dimmed with red.
The mornings after frantic nights are dread:
The cherished gardens turned to stifling stall,
Untimely snow of bane the trees filmed over,
And upward rose the lark with hopeless call.

Then through the land on weightless soles you stray,
And bright it grows with colors you have laid,
You bid us pluck the fruits from joyous spray,
And rout the shadows lurking in the night…
Did I not weave-you and your tranquil light-
This crown in thanks, who ever could have known
That more than sun, long days for me you rayed,
And evenings more than any starry zone.