Market day

Who'll walk the fields with us to town,In an old coat and a faded gown?We take our roots and country sweetsWhere high walls shade the steep old streets,And golden bells and silver chimesRing up and down the sleepy times.The morning mountains smoke like fires;The sun spreads out his shining wires;The mower in the half-mown leasurSips his tea and takes his pleasure.Along the lanes slow waggons amble;The sad-eyed calves awake and gamble;The foal that lay so sorrowfulIs playing in the grasses cool.By slanting ways, in slanting sun,Through startled lapwings now we runAlong the pale green hazel-path,Through April's lingering aftermathOf lady's smock and lady's slipper;We stay to watch a nesting dipper.The rabbits eye us while we pass,Out of the sorrel-crimson grass;The blackbird sings, without a fear,Where honeysuckle horns blow clear --Cool ivory stained with true vermilion;And here, within a silk pavilion,Small caterpillars lie at ease.The endless shadows of the treesAre painted purple and cobalt;Grandiloquent, the rook-files halt,Each one aware of you and me,And full of conscious dignity.Our shoes are golden as we passWith pollen from the pansied grass.Beneath an elder -- set anewWith large clean plates to catch the dew --On fine white cheese and bread we dine:The clear brook-water tastes like wine.If all folk lived with labour sweetOf their own busy hands and feet,Such marketing, it seems to me,Would make an end of poverty.