Thomas Moult
Largess for All
And so the day came up, slow-coloured, quietly rich,
Giving largess for all, spread by the season’s rote.
First, a low cloud was lit; next, the far hills afloat
Above sunk mists like heavy cloud; a thrush’s throat;
Then, by a window’s way, a dreaming maiden’s bed;
And last, across the summer valley, softly shed
To where a drunken lout sprawled sleeping in a ditch.
And neither lightening hills, nor meadow dewy-spun,
Receives more lavish share of the sun’s eastern rose;
Nor ev’n the dream that’s essenced of stainless snows!
Yonder, the bird that since the dawn has flung
Warm bubbling love-notes to the maid, among
The window-mirrored leaves, had sweetlier never sung
Than now above the sodden wretch who slumbers on.
Page(s) 128
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