The wheat hangs heavy to the further hill. The corn stands clean along the level land The ditches run. The orchard's full demand Of brave new wood is met, and the trimmed boughs spill Their summer fragrance, with the thwarted will Fruited to purpose; and all the low rebel land Subdued. And he has come. On the tan-brown hand The ring of sonship. The sobbing throat has skill To charm the old man's soul and eager brain, This Prodigal, lapped round in robes of state. It is burning sands, thronged streets, and tropic stains, Dark eyes and breath of perfume. The idle laugh Runs around the spit where turns the fatted calf. |