The Depths of the Grass

by Michael Field (1846-1914 & 1862-1913)

Look, in the early light,    Down to the infinite    Depths at the deep grass-roots;       Where the sun shoots In golden veins, as looking through    A dear pool one sees it do;    Where campion drifts Its bladders, iris-brinded, through the rifts       Of rising, falling seed   That the winds lightly scour—Down to the matted earth where over    And over again crow’s-foot and clover      And pink bindweed      Dimly, steadily flower.