The August Weeds

I wandered between woods On a grassy down, when still Clouds hung after rain Over hollow and hill; The blossom--time was over, The singing throats dumb, And the year's coloured ripeness Not yet come. And all at unawares, Surprising the stray sight, Ran straight into my heart Like a beam, delight. Negligent weeds ravelled The green edge of the copse, Whitely, dimly, sparkling With a million drops. And sudden fancy feigned What strange beauty would pass Did but a shiver of wind Tremble through the grass, Shaking the poised, round drops Spilled and softly rolled A--glitter from the ragworth's Roughened gold; From the rusted scarlet Of tall sorrel seed, And fretted tufts, frost--gray, Of the silver--weed, And from purple--downed thistle Towering dewy over Yellow--cupped spurge And the drenched, sweet clover. But all were motionless: Not one breath shed Those little pale pearls That an elf might thread Under a fading moon By an old thorn--tree For the witching throat Of Nimuë.