Seven
(专辑: Here, Hear II - 2008)
The
Mole had been working very hard all the
morning, Spring-cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; Then on ladders and steps and chairs, With a
brush and a
pail of whitewash; Till he had dust in his throats and eyes, And splashes of whitewash all over his black fur. Spring was moving in the
air above And in the
earth below and around him, Penetrating even his small dark and lowly little house With its spirit of divine discontent and longing. It was small wonder, then, That he suddenly flung down his brush on the
floor And said, "Bother!" Something up above was calling him. So he scraped and scratched and scrabbled and scrooged and then scrooged again and scrabbled and scratched and scraped, Working busily with his little paws and muttering to himself, "Up we go! Up we go!" Until at last, pop. His snout came out into the
sunlight And he found himself rolling in the
warm grass of a
great meadow. "This is fine," he said to himself. And jumping off all his four legs at once In the
joy of living and the
delight of spring, He pursued his way across the
meadow Till he reached the
hedge on the
further side. Hither and thither through the
meadows he rambled busily, Finding everywhere birds building, flowers budding, leaves thrusting everything happy, and progressive, and occupied. And instead of having an uneasy conscience pricking him, He somehow could only feel how jolly it was to be The
only idle dog among all these busy citizens. He thought his happiness was complete when, As he meandered aimlessly along, Suddenly he stood by the
edge of a
full-fed river. Never in his life had he seen a
river before This sleek, sinuous, full-bodied animal, chasing and chuckling, Gripping this with a
gurgle and leaving them with a
laugh, To fling itself on fresh playmates that shook themselves free, And were caught and held again. All was a-shake and a-shiver Flints and gleams and sparkles, rustle and swirl, chatter and bubble. The
mole was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. By the
side of the
river he trotted as on trots, when very small, by the
side of a
man who holds one spell-bound by exciting stories; And when tired at last, he sat on the
bank, While the
river chattered on to him, A
babbling procession of the
best stories in the
world, Sent from the
heart of the
earth to be told at last to the
insatiable sea. The
mole waggled his toes from sheer happiness, Spread his chest with a
sigh of full contentment, And leaned back blissfully. "What a
day I'm having," he said.