The Verse-Book of a Homely Woman Part 7

Clear flames of Crocus glimmered on The s.h.i.+ning 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 br.i.m.m.i.n.g d.y.k.e 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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 cl.u.s.ter, 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 pus.h.i.+ng 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 towns.h.i.+p, where my errand lay.

Firm my purpose, till a voice cried (Follow!

Come this way--I tell you--come this way!)

Silence, Thrus.h.!.+ 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 cl.u.s.tered 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!