Early Spring
Quick through the gates of Fairyland
The South Wind forced his way.
'Twas his to make the Earth forget
Her grief of yesterday.
"'Tis mine," cried he, "to bring her joy!"
And on his lightsome feet
In haste he slung the snowdrop bells,
Pushed past the Fairy sentinels,
And out with laughter sweet.
Clear flames of Crocus glimmered on
The shining way he went.
He whispered to the trees strange tales
Of wondrous sweet intent,
When, suddenly, his witching voice
With timbre rich and rare,
Rang through the woodlands till it cleft
Earth's silent solitudes, and left
A Dream of Roses there!
The Witness
The Master of the Garden said;
"Who, now the Earth seems cold
and dead,
Will by his fearless witnessing
Hold men's hearts for the tardy spring?"
"Not yet. I am but half awake,"
All drowsily the Primrose spake.
And fast the sleeping Daffodils
Had folded up their golden frills.
"Indeed," the frail Anemone
Said softly, "'tis too cold for me."
Wood Hyacinths, all deeply set,
Replied: "No ice has melted yet."
When suddenly, with smile so bright,
Up sprang a Winter Aconite,
And to the Master joyfully
She cried: "I will the witness be."
In Somerset
In Somerset they guide the plough
From early dawn till twilight now.
The good red earth smells sweeter yet,
Behind the plough, in Somerset.
The celandines round last year's mow
Blaze out . . . and with his old-time vow
The South Wind woos the Violet,
In Somerset.
Then, every brimming dyke and trough
Is laughing wide with ripples now,
And oh, 'tis easy to forget
That wintry winds can sigh and sough,
When thrushes chant on every bough
In Somerset!
Song of a Woodland
Stream
Silent was I, and so still,
As day followed day.
Imprisoned until
King Frost worked his will.
Held fast like a vice,
In his cold hand of ice,
For fear kept me silent, and lo
He had wrapped me around and about
with a mantle of snow.
But sudden there spake
One greater than he.
Then my heart was awake,
And my spirit ran free.
At His bidding my bands fell apart, He
had burst them asunder.
I can feel the swift wind rushing by me,
once more the old wonder
Of quickening sap stirs my pulses--I
shout in my gladness,
Forgetting the sadness,
For the Voice of the Lord fills the air!
And forth through the hollow I go, where
in glad April weather,
The trees of the forest break out into
singing together.
And here the frail windflowers will cluster,
with young ferns uncurling,
Where broader and deeper my waters go
eddying, whirling,
To meet the sweet Spring on her journey
--His servant to be,
Whose word set me free!
Luggage in Advance
"The Fairies must have come," I
said,
"For through the moist leaves, brown and
dead,
The Primroses are pushing up,
And here's a scarlet Fairy-cup.
They must have come, because I see
A single Wood Anemone,
The flower that everybody knows
The Fairies use to scent their clothes.
And hark! The South Wind blowing, fills
The trumpets of the Daffodils.
They MUST have come!"
Then loud to me
Sang from a budding cherry tree,
A cheerful Thrush . . . "I say! I say!
The Fairy Folk are on their way.
Look out! Look out! Beneath your feet,
Are all their treasures: Sweet! Sweet!
Sweet!
They could not carry them, you see,
Those caskets crammed with witchery,
So ready for the first Spring dance,
They sent their Luggage in Advance!"
At the Cross Roads
There I halted. Further down the
hollow
Stood the township, where my errand lay.
Firm my purpose, till a voice cried
(Follow!
Come this way--I tell you--come this
way!)
Silence, Thrush! You know I think of
buying
A Spring-tide hat; my frock is worn and
old.
So to the shops I go. What's that you're
crying?
(Here! Come here! And gather primrose
gold.)
Well, yes. Some day I will; but time is
going.
I haste to purchase silks and satins fair.
I'm all in rags. (The Lady's Smock is
showing
Up yonder, in the little coppice there.)
And wood anemones spread out their
laces;
Each celandine has donned a silken gown;
The violets are lifting shy sweet faces.
(And there's a chiff-chaff, soft, and slim, and
brown.)
But what about my hat? (The bees are
humming.)
And my new frock? (The hawthorn's
budding free!
Sweet! Oh, so sweet!) Well, have your
way. I'm coming!
And who's to blame for that? (Why, me!
Me! Me!)
Summer met Me
Summer met me in the glade,
With a host of fair princesses,
Golden iris, foxgloves staid,
Sunbeams flecked their gorgeous dresses.
Roses followed in her train,
Creamy elder-flowers beset me,
Singing, down the scented lane,
Summer met me!
Summer met me! Harebells rang,
Honeysuckle clustered near,
As the royal pageant sang
Songs enchanting to the ear.
Rainy days may come apace,
Nevermore to grieve or fret me,
Since, in all her radiant grace,
Summer met me!
The Carrier
"Owd John's got past his work," said
they,
Last week as ever was--"don't pay
To send by him. He's stoopid, too,
And brings things what won't never do.
We'll send by post, he is that slow.
And that owd hoss of his can't go."
But 'smornin', well, 'twas fun to see
The gentlefolks run after we.
Squire's lady stopped I in the lane,
"Oh," says she, "goin' to town again?
You'll not mind calling into Bings
To fetch my cakes and buns and things?
I've got a party comin' on,
And nought to eat . . . so, DO 'ee, John."
Then, up the street, who should I see,
But old Mam Bessant hail'n' me.
And Doctor's wife, and Mrs. Higgs
Was wantin' vittles for their pigs,
And would I bring some? (Well, what
nex'?)
And Granny Dunn has broke her specs,
And wants 'em mended up in town,
So would John call and bring 'em down
To-night . . . ? and so the tale goes on,
'Tis, "Sure you will, now DO 'ee, John."
Well, 'tis a hevil wind that blows
Nobody any good; it shows
As owd John haves his uses yet,
Though now and then he do forget.
Gee up, owd gal. When strikes is on,
They're glad of pore owd stoopid John.
The Lad's Love by the
Gate
Down in the dear West Country,
there's a garden where I know
The Spring is rioting this hour, though
I am far away--
Where all the glad flower-faces are old
loves of long ago,
And each in its accustomed place is
blossoming to-day.
The lilac drops her amethysts upon the
mossy wall,
While in her boughs a cheerful thrush
is calling to his mate.
Dear breath of mignonette and stocks!
I love you, know you all.
And, oh, the fragrant spices from the
lad's love by the gate!
Kind wind from the West Country, wet
wind, but scented so,
That straight from my dear garden
you seem but lately come,
Just tell me of the yellow broom, the
guelder rose's snow,
And of the tangled clematis where
myriad insects hum.
Oh, is there any heartsease left, or any
rosemary?
And in their own green solitudes, say,
do the lilies wait?
I knew it! Gentle wind, but once--
speak low and tenderly--
How fares it--tell me truly--with the
lad's love by the gate?
The Thrush
Across the land came a magic word
When the earth was bare and
lonely,
And I sit and sing of the joyous spring,
For 'twas I who heard, I only!
Then dreams came by, of the gladsome
days,
Of many a wayside posy;
For a crocus peeps where the wild rose
sleeps,
And the willow wands are rosy!
Oh! the time to be! When the paths
are green,
When the primrose-gold is lying
'Neath the hazel spray, where the catkins
sway,
And the dear south wind comes sigh-
ing.
My mate and I, we shall build a nest,
So snug and warm and cosy,
When the kingcups gleam on the meadow
stream,
Where the willow wands are rosy!
In Dorset Dear
In Dorset Dear they're making hay
In just the old West Country way.
With fork and rake and old-time gear
They make the hay in Dorset Dear.
From early morn till twilight grey
They toss and turn and shake the hay.
And all the countryside is gay
With roses on the fallen may,
For 'tis the hay-time of the year
In Dorset Dear.
The loaded waggons wend their way
Across the pasture-lands, and stay
Beside the hedge where foxgloves peer;
And ricks that shall be fashioned here
Will be the sweetest stuff, they say,
In Dorset Dear!
The Flight of the Fairies
There's a rustle in the woodlands,
and a sighing in the breeze,
For the Little Folk are busy in the bushes
and the trees;
They are packing up their treasures, every
one with nimble hand,
Ready for the coming journey back to
sunny Fairyland.
They have gathered up the jewels from
their beds of mossy green,
With all the dewy diamonds that summer
morns have seen;
The silver from the lichen and the
powdered gold dust, too,
Where the buttercups have flourished and
the dandelions grew.
They packed away the birdies' songs,
then, lest we should be sad,
They left the Robin's carol out, to make
the winter glad;
They packed the fragrance of the flowers,
then, lest we should forget,
Out of the pearly scented box they
dropped a Violet.
Then o'er a leafy carpet, by the silent
woods they came,
Where the golden bracken lingered and
the maples were aflame.
On the stream the starlight shimmered, o'er
their wings the moonbeams shone,
Music filtered through the forest--and the
Little Folk were gone!
The Street Player
The shopping had been tedious, and
the rain
Came pelting down as she turned home
again.
The motor-bus swirled past with rush and
whirr,
Nought but its fumes of petrol left for
her.
The bloaters in her basket, and the cheese
Malodorously mixed themselves with
these.
And all seemed wrong. The world was
drab and grey
As the slow minutes wept themselves
away.
And then, athwart the noises of the street,
A violin flung out an Irish air.
"I'll take you home again, Kathleen."
Ah, sweet,
How tender-sweet those lilting phrases
were!
They soothed away the weariness, and
brought
Such peace to one worn woman, over-
wrought,
That she forgot the things which vexed
her so:
The too outrageous price of calico,
The shop-girl's look of pitying insolence
Because she paused to count the dwindling
pence.
The player stopped. But the rapt vision
stayed.
That woman faced life's worries unafraid.
The sugar shortage now had ceased to be
An insurmountable calamity.
Her kingdom was not bacon, no, nor
butter,
But things more costly still, too rare to
utter.
And, over chimney-pots, so bare and tall,
The sun set gloriously, after all.
On All Souls' Eve
Oh, the garden ways are lonely!
Winds that bluster, winds that
shout,
Battle with the strong laburnum,
Toss the sad brown leaves about.
In the gay herbaceous border,
Now a scene of wild disorder,
The last dear hollyhock has flamed his
crimson glory out.
Yet, upon this night of longing,
Souls are all abroad, they say.
Will they come, the dazzling blossoms,
That were here but yesterday?
Will the ghosts of radiant roses
And my sheltered lily-closes
Hold once more their shattered fragrance
now November's on her way?
Wallflowers, surely you'll remember,
Pinks, recall it, will you not?
How I loved and watched and tended,
Made this ground a hallowed spot:
Pansies, with the soft meek faces,
Harebells, with a thousand graces:
Dear dead loves, I wait and listen. Tell
me, have you quite forgot?
HUSH! THEY COME! For down the path-
way
Steals a fragrance honey-sweet.
Larkspurs, lilies, stocks, and roses,
Hasten now my heart to greet.
Stay, oh, stay! My hands would hold
you . . .
But the arms that would enfold you
Crush the bush of lad's love growing in
the dusk beside my feet.
The Log Fire
In her last hour of life the tree
Gave up her glorious memories,
Wild scent of wood anemone,
The sapphire blue of April skies.
With faint but ever-strength'ning flame,
The dew-drenched hyacinthine spires
Were lost, as red-gold bracken came,
With maple bathed in living fires.
Grey smoke of ancient clematis
Towards the silver birch inclined,
And deep in thorny fastnesses
The coral bryony entwined.
Then softly through the dusky room
They strayed, fair ghosts of other days,
With breath like early cherry bloom,
With tender eyes and gentle ways.
They glimmered on the sombre walls,
They danced upon the oaken floor,
Till through the loudly silent halls
Joy reigned majestical once more.
Up blazed the fire, and, dazzling clear,
One rapturous Spirit radiant stood.
'Twas you at last! Yes, YOU, my dear.
We two were back in Gatcombe Wood!
God save the King
GOD SAVE OUR GRACIOUS KING. (It
seems
The Church is full of bygone dreams.)
LONG LIVE OUR NOBLE KING. (My own,
'Tis hard to stand here all alone.)
GOD SAVE THE KING. (But, sweetheart, you
Were always brave to dare and do.)
SEND HIM VICTORIOUS. (For then,
My darling will come home again!)
HAPPY AND GLORIOUS ('Twill be
Like Heaven to him--and what to me?)
LONG TO REIGN OVER US. (My dear!
And we'd been wedded one short year!)
GOD SAVE OUR KING. (And Lord, I pray
Keep MY King safe this very day.)
Forgive us, thou--great England's kingly
King
That thus do women National Anthems
sing.