The Earth to Steep

 The Fields at Evening
by Gordon Bottomley 

The dew-light lingers yet --
A grey bloom on the meads --
While here and there a jet
 Of moon-pale cowslip cedes
 A scent none heeds 

 Of hay-time yet to come:
 Adown the ebbing wold
 Belated wild bees hum,
 Smeared on the thighs with cold
 Mellifluous gold. 

 A soft-brown thrush, content,
 Threads through the thin green blades;
 Dim opal cobwebs, rent,
 Fling flashing filmy threads
 In tender shades 

 Upon its sides; a thrush
 Flutes in yon night of firs;
 Some slow stream's fading flush
 Quivers and disappears
 Afar; nought stirs.

The cloud-faint purple hills
 In gloom are folded deep;
The breath of night distils
A sense of airy sleep
The earth to steep.