Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind；
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep，
Drows’d with the fume of poppies， while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers：
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook；
Or by a cyder-press， with patient look，
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
III
Where are the songs of Spring？ Ay， where are they？
Think not of them， thou hast thy music too， —
