Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/114

While she, the good mother, with a skin soft as silk
White and red, rich laden with her treasure of milk,
Powerful and kind, the most liberal of givers,
Under their hands is still. Scarce now and then shivers
Her bright side more shaded than the flank of a pard
As they pull. She seems carved in stone massive and hard;
Dreamy, large-eyed, and calm, she desires no release,
But looks vaguely in air, a grand picture of peace.
Thus Nature—our refuge, 'gainst the arrows of fate!
Universal Mother, as indulgent as great!
Thus all at once, creatures of every age and rank,
Shadow and milk we search, in thine eternal flank;
The mystic and carnal, the wise and foolish, come there,
The spirits retiring, and the spirits that dare,
Sages with halos bound, poets with laurels crowned,
All creep under thy breast, or encircle thee round.
And whilst well-nigh famished, with eager joyful cries
From thy source endless, we draw our needed supplies,
Quench our heart's thirst, and ask and obtain what must soon
Form our blood and our soul, as a free gift and boon,
Respire in long waves thy sacred flame and thy light,
From all that greets our ears, or our touch, or our sight—
The leaves and the mountains, the blue sky and green sod,
Thou undistracted and still—thou dreamest of thy God!