POETRY. -
'Las. DINGLE.
SHE called me from the dingle.
It was no mortal cry ; The sweet, clear note rang single, Lone, and long, and high.
My back was bent with scything The haygrass in the field ; Skindeep I felt the writhing Muscles knot and yield.
Poppies in fire were flaming Crimson to my sight, Emblems of sin and shaming ; Inebriates of light.
Crimson from the willows By the lazy stream Which slides 'twixt greenshade pillows Where youth lies to dream.
Crimson thence the sleepwaves Crept with poisoned reach, Threatening to leap graves By God's Acre Beech.
And the hot sun, he helloed, Shouting with drunkard rage, While the rash noontide followed His lustful equipage.
Vainly the cold church steeple Rose from the earth to remind Of the strength of the village people Through the ages left behind.
Vainly the gravestones pointed, Pale in the beechbough shade, Stern as the Lord's anointed.
My heart laughed unafraid.
Aye, fiercely and joyfully leaping, My sun-created strength Sprang from its youthlong sleeping, And flung the scythe arm's length.
RicrrAnn Ca-nacos
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