The Rainbow

They did not want to turn back, yet whither were they to go,

towards the moon? For they were separate, single.

"We will put up some sheaves," said Anna. So they could

remain there in the broad, open place.

They went across the stubble to where the long rows of

upreared shocks ended. Curiously populous that part of the field

looked, where the shocks rode erect; the rest was open and

prostrate.

The air was all hoary silver. She looked around her. Trees

stood vaguely at their distance, as if waiting like heralds, for

the signal to approach. In this space of vague crystal her heart

seemed like a bell ringing. She was afraid lest the sound should

be heard.

"You take this row," she said to the youth, and passing on,

she stooped in the next row of lying sheaves, grasping her hands

in the tresses of the oats, lifting the heavy corn in either

hand, carrying it, as it hung heavily against her, to the

cleared space, where she set the two sheaves sharply down,

bringing them together with a faint, keen clash. Her two bulks

stood leaning together. He was coming, walking shadowily with

the gossamer dusk, carrying his two sheaves. She waited near-by.

He set his sheaves with a keen, faint clash, next to her

sheaves. They rode unsteadily. He tangled the tresses of corn.

It hissed like a fountain. He looked up and laughed.

Then she turned away towards the moon, which seemed glowingly

to uncover her bosom every time she faced it. He went to the

vague emptiness of the field opposite, dutifully.

They stooped, grasped the wet, soft hair of the corn, lifted

the heavy bundles, and returned. She was always first. She set

down her sheaves, making a pent-house with those others. He was

coming shadowy across the stubble, carrying his bundles, She

turned away, hearing only the sharp hiss of his mingling corn.

She walked between the moon and his shadowy figure.

She took her two new sheaves and walked towards him, as he

rose from stooping over the earth. He was coming out of the near

distance. She set down her sheaves to make a new stook. They

were unsure. Her hands fluttered. Yet she broke away, and turned

to the moon, which laid bare her bosom, so she felt as if her

bosom were heaving and panting with moonlight. And he had to put

up her two sheaves, which had fallen down. He worked in silence.

The rhythm of the work carried him away again, as she was coming

near.

They worked together, coming and going, in a rhythm, which

carried their feet and their bodies in tune. She stooped, she

lifted the burden of sheaves, she turned her face to the dimness

where he was, and went with her burden over the stubble. She

hesitated, set down her sheaves, there was a swish and hiss of

mingling oats, he was drawing near, and she must turn again. And

there was the flaring moon laying bare her bosom again, making

her drift and ebb like a wave.