I SHALL have three grey poplar trees above me when I sleep; the poplars will not sway or swing, nor like the willow weep, but upright as the staff of one who watcheth o'er his sheep. Some fount may open silvern lips near by; not far away the harvester his voice may lift in solemn joy; three grey great poplars will refresh him with their shade in the noonday. And when to every creature Night respose and respite brings, profound my sleep, the while to me the dew-wet meadow clings, soft garment of the Poor, which is the cerecloth, too, of Kings. As when the Shadow Hand of Eventide the toiling Bee at last will homeward guide, and guide unto her the sheltering tree the weary singing Bird, so may the kind night come for me! I shall have three grey poplar trees above me when I sleep; the poplars will not sway or swing, nor like the willow weep, but upright as the staff of one who watcheth o'er his sheep. |