Part 3

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 shining, 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 God's on the blackthorn now.

_Meopham._

In a London Square

The leaves are green, and in the grass 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 pass?

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 Friendship 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.

O who would live in the narrow street When skies are broad and free? O who would bide in the stony street When the sun is on the sea? Come! leave the dust and hasten To the breath of winds that chasten: The surging waves, the starry span, Are better both for child and man.

_Fairseat._

Summer Ending

Over the world a breath Has fallen as of Spring; the tender sky Hangs tremulous, a shield through which the sun Shines as the heart smiles in a mist of tears. The trees are green still, but their branches bear The blossoms of the fall; each quivering birch Shakes golden coins upon her silver stem; The little rowan rears his corals gay, The purple sloes are thick upon the thorn, And every breeze new-scatters to the ground Spoils red and yellow. Here upon the hill Where at our feet bee-haunted heather glows Among the rocks, sweet peace enfolds us; see, On velvet slopes afar the patient kine In silence browse; the plough in furrows wide Has turned the weary earth to rest; the sun Sinks and, across the valley, mountains fade From blue to grey and pearl-like touch the sky. The hour of silver comes now, for the moon Awakes and softly films the dusk with light; The narrow river in her ample bed Answers the stars, and soft serenity Has spread her wings upon the earth.... O Heart Of man!--why must you throb apart and know A tempered Peace where Nature's Peace is pure? Already winter's snows upon the hills Like phantoms to our vision rise; the trees Groan leafless in the wind, and ghosts of pain Flit dark between the present and our eyes. 'Tis thus we murder Joy, and let To-morrow, A still-born Terror, anguish dear To-day: 'Tis thus, possessing Wealth, we shiver poor Ere we are stricken: thus our clasped hands Grow cold and ache with Solitude to be....

_Kasna, September 1901._

Near Autumn

Red apple in the leaves, Red robin on the bough, The oats are all in sheaves-- Where's summer now?

White foam along the sea, White mist upon the dawn, No flower for the bee-- 'Tis summer gone.

Black bird is silent, lone, Black berry decks the spray; And Autumn's breath has blown Upon the day.

_Longueil._

November

The grey clouds hide the sun now And the leaves flow down with the rain: The golden days are done now And Winter looms again.

'Tis bed-time for the seeds now For the earth is weary of green: She'll hide the very weeds now Till nothing gay be seen.

Yet wait! it is not death now That strips the meadow and grove: The rose but holds her breath now In the garden that we love:

'Tis sleep--the earth must rest now. O Winter's a wondrous thing! For she hides within her breast now The jocund heart of Spring.

_Fairseat._

The Common Wealth

O voices of the sea and land, How sweet upon my ear you fall! The curlew's cry, the heron's call, The grey gull's chatter on the strand, The robin on the mossy wall, The coal-tit almost at my hand-- How I thank Heaven for you all!

O wonder of the hills and sky, How dear your beauty to my sight! The wintry noon, the sea's delight, The ruddy moorland far and high, The pendant larch's silver white, The golden wind-blown leaves that lie-- How I thank God for all this light!

_Rosneath._

Edinburgh: Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE