You loved the hay in the meadow,
Flowers at noon,
The high cloud's long shadow,
Honey of June,
The flaming woodways tangled
With Fall on the hill,
The towering night star-spangled
And winter-still.
And you loved firelit faces,
The hearth, the home,—
Your mind on golden traces,
London or Rome,—
On quaintly-colored spaces
Where heavens glow
With his quaint saints’ embraces,—
Angelico.
In cloister and highway
( Gold of God's dust! )
And many an elfin byway
You put your trust,—
A crock and a table,
Love's end of day,
And light of a storied stable
Where kings must pray.
Somewhere there is a village
For you and me,
Hay field, hearth and tillage,—
Where can it be?
Prayers when birds awake,
Daily bread,
Toil for His sunlit sake
Who raised us dead.
With this in mind you moved
Through love and pain.
Hard though the long road proved,
You turned again
With a heart that knew its trust
Not ill-bestowed.
With this you light the dust
That clouds my road.