Chapter 4

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.