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Is it a little thing to lie down here Beside the water, looking into it, And see there grass and fallen leaves interknit, And small fish sometimes passing thro' some bit Of tangled grass where there's an outlet clear? And then a drift of wind perhaps will come, And blow the insects hovering all about Into the water. Some of them get out; Others swim with sharp twitches; and you doubt Whether of life or death for other some. Meanwhile the blueflies sway themselves along Over the water's surface, or close by; Not one in ten beyond the grass will fly That closely skirts the stream; nor will your eye Meet any where the sunshine is not strong. After a time you find, you know not how, That it is quite a stretch of energy To do what you have done unconsciously,-- That is, pull up the grass; and then you see You may as well rise and be going now. So, having walked for a few steps, you fall Bodily on the grass under the sun, And listen to the rustle, one by one, Of the trees' leaves; and soon the wind has done For a short space, and it is quiet all; Except because the rooks will make a caw Just now and then together: and the breeze Soon rises up again among the trees, Making the grass, moreover, bend and tease Your face, but pleasantly. Mayhap the paw Of a dog touches you and makes you rise Upon one arm to pat him; and he licks Your hand for that. A child is throwing sticks, Hard by, at some half-dozen cows, which fix Upon him their unmoved contented eyes. The sun's heat now is painful. Scarce can you Move, and even less lie still. You shuffle then, Poised on your arms, again to shade. Again There comes a pleasant laxness on you. When You have done enough of nothing, you will go. Some hours perhaps have passed. Say not you fling These hours or such-like recklessly away. Seeing the grass and sun and children, say, Is not this something more than idle play, Than careless waste? Is it a little thing? The Light beyond I Though we may brood with keenest subtlety, Sending our reason forth, like Noah's dove, To know why we are here to die, hate, love, With Hope to lead and help our eyes to see Through labour daily in dim mystery, Like those who in dense theatre and hall, When fire breaks out or weight-strained rafters fall,
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