Part 3 (1/2)

Kiss you turn and turn about, But my lad, beware--a!

Old Woman!

Old Woman!

Old Woman's let the Cuckoo out At Heffle Cuckoo Fair--a!

A CHARM

Take of English earth as much As either hand may rightly clutch.

In the taking of it breathe Prayer for all who lie beneath.

Not the great nor well-bespoke, But the mere uncounted folk Of whose life and death is none Report or lamentation.

Lay that earth upon thy heart, And thy sickness shall depart!

It shall sweeten and make whole Fevered breath and festered soul.

It shall mightily restrain Over-busy hand and brain.

It shall ease thy mortal strife 'Gainst the immortal woe of life, Till thyself restored shall prove By what grace the Heavens do move.

Take of English flowers these-- Spring's full-faced primroses, Summer's wild wide-hearted rose, Autumn's wall-flower of the close, And, thy darkness to illume, Winter's bee-thronged ivy-bloom.

Seek and serve them where they bide From Candlemas to Christmas-tide, For these simples, used aright, Can restore a failing sight.

These shall cleanse and purify Webbed and inward-turning eye; These shall show thee treasure hid, Thy familiar fields amid; And reveal (which is thy need) Every man a King indeed!

THE PRAIRIE

'I see the gra.s.s shake in the sun for leagues on either hand, I see a river loop and run about a treeless land-- An empty plain, a steely pond, a distance diamond-clear, And low blue naked hills beyond. And what is that to fear?'

'Go softly by that river-side or, when you would depart, You'll find its every winding tied and knotted round your heart.

Be wary as the seasons pa.s.s, or you may ne'er outrun The wind that sets that yellowed gra.s.s a-s.h.i.+ver 'neath the Sun.'

'I hear the summer storm outblown--the drip of the grateful wheat.

I hear the hard trail telephone a far-off horse's feet.

I hear the horns of Autumn blow to the wild-fowl overhead; And I hear the hush before the snow. And what is that to dread?'

'Take heed what spell the lightning weaves--what charm the echoes shape-- Or, bound among a million sheaves, your soul may not escape.

Bar home the door of summer nights lest those high planets drown The memory of near delights in all the longed-for town.'

'What need have I to long or fear? Now, friendly, I behold My faithful seasons robe the year in silver and in gold.

Now I possess and am possessed of the land where I would be, And the curve of half Earth's generous breast shall soothe and ravish me!'

CHAPTER HEADINGS