No sound was on the plain
But the stealthy drip of rain
In the tall, bleached thistle-spires,
And the wind a-thrum in the wires.
The road lay washed and bare
With a look of winter-sleep.
Nothing was moving there
But a trickle of dust-brown sheep.
And then out of the sky
At the end of the road there came
A butcher's cart that went lolloping by
Like a chariot of flame.
The wheels revolving spurned
The jagged ruts with pride,
And the butcher's boy, his face upturned,
Sang, swaying from side to side.
And the whole dim, desolate place
Bloomed into light and grace --
For here was the voice of very joy
Loosed on the lips of a butcher's boy.
First published in The Bulletin, 18 June 1947
