Provocations Part 4

Once a Babe was born this weather, Three Wise Men set forth together; Once a Star of wondrous glory Told the Christ's triumphant story.

Wintry weather!--G.o.d's own weather!

All the world washed white together!

February

I do not sing for youth and love, For pa.s.sion and desire, I only sing because the sun Is gold like s.h.i.+ning fire; I only sing because the day Is blue, the gra.s.s is green, The birds are singing out their hearts, The waking twigs between!

Because the chestnut branch is tipped With buds of folded brown, Because the snowdrops look so white, The catkins feather down, Because the naked elms have bent To whisper me this thing-- The sap is stirring in their limbs-- How can I choose, but sing!

Oh! 'Tis May

Come and idle in the sun, Come and idle, everyone, Flowering May Is wholly gay, Come and idle in the sun.

Come and smell the new-mown lawn, Fragrant gra.s.s, and dew-wet dawn.

Buds unfold, And leaves grown bold Spread great shadows on the lawn.

Come and hear the chaffinch trill, Hear the lark and thrushes thrill!

Come along, _Such_ a song, Such a chorus bright and shrill.

_Won't_ you come?

Hear the hum, Hear the hum of tireless bee.

Come with me, Wilt not idle for a day?

Wilt not s.h.i.+rk Thy waste of work?

_This_ is life, this radiant play Nature keeps for flowering May.

Buds and bees and gra.s.s and flower Make a sweeter, holier hour Than all drab years of labour dour.

Come away, Come and play, Come and glory in the sun, Come and laugh! Come, everyone.

Flowering May Is fresh and gay, Come and greet the golden sun.

Come away, Come and play, Come, oh! come out, everyone!

To the Wind

Wind, wind, Do you whisper eerie sonnets to the moon As it rises white and sickled? Do you croon Silver-coloured ditties pale and low As you rock the cedar branches too and fro?

Do you sing to woo the bat, Is it that, is it that?

Have you tunes for such a sullen little wraith, Half dream, swooping high, scarcely seen, chiefly faith?

Would you hold a phantom to your breast As you murmur gently love-notes from the west?

Wind, wind, Every tree is but a harp for your desire, Every leaf a mellow string to swell your choir, Every gra.s.s a cooing reed At your need, for your need, Drums and clas.h.i.+ng cymbals of the sea Boom a paean, hurl a flood of melody.

Wind, wind, Men have s.n.a.t.c.hed an air or two Of a fantasy from you And have prisoned them in books to make them stay, Scattered fragments that your lips have blown this way.

Small and shy and thin and cramped and grave, They are caged and tied to paper in a stave.

Do you mind, Oh Wind?

But you laugh and troll out gaily on your way, "Keep the fragments, little earth-men, dance and play, 'Tis a dainty roundelay, Hold it, pray; hold it, pray.

For myself, my breath is fierce, myself am great, For my tiny fallen airs I dare not wait; Storms beneath my rus.h.i.+ng wings unfurled Roll the symphonies which dominate the world."

The Grey Wind

I have been, where never man went, With the grey wind: Far from the gorse and the wet earth scent I have been.

I have seen, what no man hath seen With the grey wind: I have cowered down his knees between: I have seen.

I have heard, what no man hath heard With the grey wind: The dry leaves crackle and snap at his word I have heard.

I have heard, and I watched them fly All the wild leaves In a hustled crowd, to the stormy sky, At his word.

And they swept in a whirlwind wan, Churned by his breath, Out to the windways, where never sun shone, Forth they swept.

Whiles they leapt in a maddened dance, Swung scatterwise; Eddied and swirled to a swift advance Till they crept

Spent and worn, in their frenzied fear, Leaves of brown-gold Chittering feebly in ma.s.ses sere, Crazed and slow:

And I know, what never man knew, Those poor dead leaves Are the souls of men the grey wind slew-- This I know.

Poeta Nascitur

Tho' all mayn't know it, Rules only, never made a poet.

He thought to shape his writings into verse, He pruned them down to language fixed and terse, But finding that would give his tricks no play, Spurned his reserve, and tried another way.

This time he dressed the naked words with care, Trimmed them with adjectives and adverbs fair, And studying every law of form and rhyme, Pieced up his metre into studious time.

But still, whatever medium he chose, His work remained poor, tortured, uns.e.xed prose.

One dew-drenched eve, whilst pondering in the vale He felt the leaves a-quiver in the dale-- Stooping, he caught a whisper from the sky That slipped from out the twilight whimsically.

Its tender sorrow touched him as it fell, Quickened his fancies, stirred his heart as well, In reverent awe he heard its mystic call, A heaven-born glory permeating all.