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Robert Laurence Binyon - The August Weeds
Work rating: Low

I wandered between woods
 On a grassy down, when still
 Clouds hung after rain
 Over hollow and hill;

 The blossom--time was over,
 The singing throats dumb,
 And the year`s coloured ripeness
 Not yet come.

 And all at unawares,
 Surprising the stray sight,
 Ran straight into my heart
 Like a beam, delight.

 Negligent weeds ravelled
 The green edge of the copse,
 Whitely, dimly, sparkling
 With a million drops.

 And sudden fancy feigned
 What strange beauty would pass
 Did but a shiver of wind
 Tremble through the grass,

 Shaking the poised, round drops
 Spilled and softly rolled
 A--glitter from the ragworth`s
 Roughened gold;

 From the rusted scarlet
 Of tall sorrel seed,
 And fretted tufts, frost--gray,
 Of the silver--weed,

 And from purple--downed thistle
 Towering dewy over
 Yellow--cupped spurge
 And the drenched, sweet clover.

 But all were motionless:
 Not one breath shed
 Those little pale pearls
 That an elf might thread

 Under a fading moon
 By an old thorn--tree
 For the witching throat
 Of Nimuë.
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