III
Soon may the whisp’ring blade
Bow the grey grasses,
Lo, the lush edge unfrayed
Where the scythe passes!
All with a stately speed
Shorn and soft whistle
Muted on nought of weed,
Burdock nor thistle.—
Grace hath possessed the sky,
Hope hath o’er-spanned it,
Parteth he hurriedly,
Storm, the black bandit.
Haste away,
Waters grey,
Spare of your shedding,
Till we bestow our hay
Safe in the steading.