The Village
1914
SETTLING behind the haze a molten sun
Clothes the distant spires in gossamer,
Touches the swinging windows of the street
With fire, splashes the trees in liquid gold
And, in lassitude of slow decline,
Heralds the twilight's ease.
Weary workers
Turned from the plow, home-trudging from the fields,
Smile at their thoughts of well-earned peace and rest:
For in the village bustling pots and pans,
Sweet pleasant smells of peasant cookery,
Spell preparation for the evening meal.
In doorways, taking vantage of the light,
Sit here and there a figure, busy still
With flying fingers, weaving spider thread
To faery patterns of Valencienne.
Children are laughing; by the tiny brook
They wander, playing, teazing, now and then
Tossing a pebble at a darting minnow,
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