An Old Song

Now does the husbandman go forth with grain
Sheer in the hand to fill the empty furrow,
Now is life cast back into earth again
And sowed with joy though it were reaped in sorrow.

Now in the cellars the cool sleeping wine
Remembers the green leaf with sudden start,
Stirs and is troubled, would return to vine —
Now does all sleeping love trouble the heart.

In the white hawthorn the small-throated thrush
Repeats his fearful new-discovered joy,
Bustles and trills till shakes the fragile bush:
Now silent love must shout like a wild boy.

And in the dark wood the small nightingale
Sits waiting the sweet terror of his sighs,
Until his heart is reft by the sharp flail
And joy or anguish thrusts his throat with cries.

Now does the husbandman go forth with grain,
Now in the cellars wakes the sleeping wine,
Now nightingale and thrush do sing again,
My love, my love, while I lie here alone.