Sometimes, about midday, an old man comes to the white farm
and sits down on the doorstep, where the stone is warm.
The yard is a mass of hens, a hundred red-crested heads
busily feeding. But the guard-dogs have taken to their beds
in the heat, and would be dreaming their doggy dreams
but for an over-vigilant cock, who struts and gleams
and crows like a stuck alarm clock in the midday glare.
A cow has just been led into the yard and tethered there.
She is magnificent: huge, russet-red and patched with white,
she stands, quite still and patiently, the way a hind might
stand over her fawns, and lets a gang of children suckle her.
A shaggy, sharp-toothed, boisterous brood they are,
their hands and faces muddier than a cowshed wall.
Yelling and screaming with excitement, they call
other children over, little ones, who plunge into the fray,
taking full advantage while the milkmaid is away.
Delightedly they suck, not minding if they hurt the beast
in biting her, and with their fingers squeeze the liquid feast
from every crack in every nipple of her fruitful udder.
Brimming with treasure, now and then she lets a shudder
run down her beautiful dark flank, and yet — for all her size
and power — she endures their attacks, her large eyes
gazing vaguely at the middle distance, her thoughts elsewhere.
Great mother Nature, you extend to us an equal care:
we are that crowd of children scrambling to feed
from you, we scholars, poets, saints and sinners, all in need
of sustenance and shelter, we’re your guzzling guests,
all hangers-on to your indulgent, mighty breasts!
Those fountains spilling inexhaustibly have been the source
of sweet refreshment to our hearts. They put the life force
in us; they invigorate our blood, our souls, our future lives.
And while we gulp down all the light and heat your bounty gives,
and while for very gladness in our strength we cry,
rejoicing in your forests, mountains, meadows, sky;
in high indifference, as we fight to slake our thirst,
you dream of Him who brought you into being at the first.
