Part 9 (1/2)
Though thy note be one of sadness, Messenger thou art of gladness Only; for thou comest first When the buds their prison burst, When, upon an April day, Earth awakes to cast away What remains of wintry sorrow, And to don for summer's morrow Joyful garb of newest green.
Spirit-like thou sing'st, unseen: East and west thy piercing note From the forest seems to float Over plain and over hill, And thy echoing cries instil Hope into each breath that blows.
Who that hears thy voice but knows That the joys of June are nearing?
See the lilies in the clearing, How they raise their green young bells!
Every hasty bud that swells Answers thee in joyfulness; And the winter's long distress, Like a lifted cloud at dawn, Melts and quivers and is gone.
Autumn leaves that strew the ways Have outlived their kindly days: Now the sun shall warm the earth: Now all things of tender birth, Newly waked from s.h.i.+elded sleep, Lift their coverlet and peep Gaily at the world.
Dear Voice, Sing! and bid each soul rejoice!
Spring's for every breast that wills; And thy note, O Cuckoo, stills All the ache of winter here.
Lo! the scattered leaves are sere Of my sorrow; and I tread them Into earth. The bough that shed them, Soon in budded joy shall be Harmonious with the day's felicity.
_Montmelian, April 1902._
A Song in the Morning
O sister! 'tis day-time, The world's happy May-time, Come out to the woods where the new nests are!
'Tis sin to be pining, The hedge-drops are s.h.i.+ning, And the wild winds have fled to the snow-lands far.
O come! and be merry, For white blows the cherry, The bluebells ring out on their stem so tall: Each cowslip's dear yellow Cries joy to its fellow, And the wind-flowers dance to the cuckoo's call.
O what is the sun for?
Come, grief is all done for, The folded leaves creep from their beds in the bough: The seeds are awaking, The furrows are breaking, And the blessing of G.o.d's on the blackthorn now.
_Meopham._
In a London Square
The leaves are green, and in the gra.s.s Lie daisy-patches, white and sweet, That spring beneath the tender feet Of baby-girls at play: From ancient boughs, serenely tall, The chequered shadows length'ning fall, And town seems far away.
Such rest is here as woodland yields: Here too are lambs in flowered fields-- Why heed the wheels that pa.s.s?
Thought sinks beneath our fitful speech Into the tremor of our peace, This hallowed hour of release From dust and whirl and haste: Thus each may find within his breast A respite to the world's unrest, Fresh verdure in the waste: Life's wheels encircle us--but, there Where Friends.h.i.+p is, the untainted air Of Heaven seems in reach.
The Call of the Green
O who would dwell in the dingy town When June is fair and green?
O who would stay in the chimneyed town Where brooks are never seen?
Come! roses blow: sweet flower Will snow the virgin's-bower: The shaded lane, the woodland wild, Are better both for man and child.