SHUTTLE of the sunburnt grass, Fifer in the dun cuirass, Fifing shrilly in the morn, Shrilly still at eve unworn; Now to rear, now in the van, Gayest of the elfin clan: Though I watch their rustling flight, I can never guess aright Where their lodging-places are; 'Mid some daisy's golden star, Or beneath a roofing leaf, Or in fringes of a sheaf, Tenanted as soon as bound! Loud thy reveille doth sound, When the earth is laid asleep, And her dreams are passing deep, On mid-August afternoons; And through all the harvest moons, Nights brimmed up with honeyed peace, Thy gainsaying doth not cease. When the frost comes, thou art dead; We along the stubble tread, On blue, frozen morns, and note No least murmur is afloat: Wondrous still our fields are then, Fifer of the elfin men! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WOODSMOKE AT 70 by HAYDEN CARRUTH AN INSINCERE WISH ADDRESSED TO A BEGGAR by MARY ELIZABETH COLERIDGE KARMA by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON SUMMER (2) by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI WHERE LIES THE LAND by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH |