As pageants, marshalled by a masterhand, So are the poppy-fields; in rose and red And foam of white and livid purple spread, Mile upon mile, they stretch on either hand; Dark by the well the heavy mangoes stand, Where labouring oxen pace with dusty tread And dripping water-skins climb up to shed Their gush upon the irrigated land.
So cool the labyrinthine channels run, Flooding the grey stems with a maze of gold; For, as he nears his end, the dying sun Does all the plain within his arms enfold; Beneath the mangoe-trees long shadows creep, Like sleep’s tread falling through the flowers of sleep.
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