THE THRESHING-FLOOR
“This mess of hard-kneaded barley-bread and a libation mixed in a little cup.”—Greek Anthology.
There’s a white stone-paven floor
Set in a jade-green field
Where the spiked acacias yield
A shadow, and the four
Earthen pots on a round well-wheel
Come up drippingly full and spill
Where the white horse runs his circle round
Drawing water for garden ground.
The white foundation here
Has ne’er held temple-plinth,
But mint and terebinth
Perfume is in the air.
And here, at the harvest-time the wains
Rattle along the sunburnt plains,
And the peasant’s arms are bared to thresh
Food from the golden barley mesh.
Before the morning’s long
Comes drowsy, sliding snatch
Of primitive threshing-song;
Down in the garden patch
The murmurous sleepy drone of bees
Blends with the stir of the poplar-trees,
And the rustle of bundled grain
Tossed from the wagon train.
Ah! the Mavrodaphne wine
Is fruity and sweet to taste,
And the oranges are fine
And the blocked Loukoúmi paste.
But I long for a crust of peasant bread
Eaten with honey from Parnes’ head,
And I hunger the more and more
At sight of the threshing-floor!