THE MORNING FIELDS by KATHARINE TYNAN

I LOOKED from my window
At peep of day:
The fields were sleeping
In the mist and grey.

So fast their slumber,
They never stirred,
Though from the coppice
Piped the first bird.

So strange their faces
As the cold light grew;
They might be spirits
Of the fields I knew.

The pale light breaking
Over the hill,
Streaked with cold amber
And the daffodil,

Waked not these sluggards;
Nor Chanticleer,
Winding his horn
For the folk to hear,

But when in his splendour
The sun leaped high,
They stretched and opened
One drowsy eye.

The fields of morning,
Withdrawn apart,
Were cold as winter
To my frightened heart.

So far in dreaming
They had wandered, strayed;
For one chill moment
I thought them dead.

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

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