Poems (Hardy)/In the field of February
IN THE FIELD IN FEBRUARY
CREEP, little mouse, clear out in the sun,Unafraid, to yon moss-tuft; stop to nibble and runOver knot-grass, in and out, under sheavesOf gray weeds, among silky long leavesOf wild oats, faded white in the rain,—Stop to nibble in peace; make what gainOf the sunshine thou canst; so will I,Little friend, unaware as thou of the world;Unaware, just an hour, of all but the skyAnd the good sweet earth at my feet,Where the springtime and harvest are curled,Safe in the round of a seed thou mayst eatEven now as a morsel, yet diminish thy shareIn what is to come not one little meal,—So full has been the sowing,So great has been the knowingOf all that 's good and fair.
There, where our springtime and harvest in keepingLie, in the root of the flower, in the seed of the grass,In the hue of the ground and the moss of the rock,Thou, little velvet-foot, art over-prying, over-creeping;No fear hast thou that food will fail thee,No thought can come or dread assail thee,While this sunny promise of the springGives thee warmth for wandering.The sun himself constraint shall feel,The stars shall lend themselves for clock,The moon unbalance the world's whole seaWhen the frost sets forth with gnome-like treadBoulder by boulder, block by block, To rend and shockGranite and shale to make our bread.
Yet dare we boast out of our narrow witsThat we are favoritesOf law? Not while Nurse Nature sitsAt times and frowns on thee and me,—Not unaware, when all is said,—Indifferent, clifflike, though I be groundTo dust, or thou be 'gulfed in serpent's maw,Or either inchmeal chopped to gainFor some pert science one more note:"Something smaller and more nearly roundThe foramen, here, than in Peromyseus found!"
Little comrade, housed to rest,I forbear to know thy runway, seek thy nest;So wend by and shut my eyesTo the gentle enterpriseThat has found thee shelter here.Thanks for pleasure, friendship, peaceAnd all that gave the thought release.Thou and I have lives that runSafely coursing with the sun;Thou and I may sleep or wake;Day of judgment shall not breakEre, recorded in our sphere,Each shall in his place appear,—Thou as safe as I, and ISafe, because nor Life, nor Death,Nor other creature God has madeThat lives a spirit, or draws breath,Shall molest or make afraid.
Now along the brown-gray plainStripes of sunlight, streams of mist,Seem to waver, seem to float;Purple are the hills, an amethystBlack Mountain is, and the further ridgesWoven into one by fog's fantastic bridges,Veil their redwoods, pass from sight;So foregather clouds and night.