Mountain Song

Though Levin found himself amidst the hum

of singing scythes, yet I myself prefer

to let the grasses grow. The fertile bed

his peasants sowed with seed, will pillow me

as, laying still and quiet, I reacquaint

myself with stars. I’ll sing no taming song,

but hear instead the whirring crickets chirp,

and wonder that the breeze should blow each blade

of grass so gently. Others work this soil

to harvest crop, but I content myself

with lazy weekend walks and hope the life

of fields and streams will sow itself in me—

that, walking sterile halls and working days

in sterile rooms I’ll keep a fertile mind,

recalling still the kiss of grass, the smell

of pine and all the untamed order of

my mountain valley. Even now I hear

its song and feel my heartbeat keeping time.