THE WIND
The sun sank, and the wind uprist whose note Piped on amid the stubble melodies Of such appeal as ’scape the limber throat Of robin singing under saffron skies;— Then did he breathe like winding of a horn, Whereat some sable flock of clouds affrighted Huddled across their rosy pasturage Behind the troubled leaves,— Larger he loomed, a traveller benighted, Hinting of menace and insurgent rage Around the placid twilight of our eaves.
The sun was gone; beneath the steady stars That watched the spectral anticks of the oak The plumèd elm-tops met in savage wars, The smitten pools in argent splinters broke; While, as a labourer among the boughs Cudgels a harvest from the branches crooked, Within the orchard fence one plied a flail That woke the sleeping house, Till from the shivered lattice faces looked Whitely, because the apples fell like hail.
The sun uprose, serenely gold and fair, And Morning in a little ruffled pond Scanned her sweet face and prinkt her yellow hair. Around her mirror lapped the leaves, beyond Jetsam of mast and acorn hid the strand, Thick in the orchard was the wreckage piled Of twig and fruit, the pitifullest noise Of sobbing filled the land:— The wind was sleeping sadly as a child Littered about by all its broken toys.
TO BETSEY-JANE,
ON HER DESIRING TO GO
INCONTINENTLY TO HEAVEN
My Betsey-Jane it would not do, For what would Heaven make of you, A little honey-loving bear, Among the Blessèd Babies there?
Nor do you dwell with us in vain Who tumble and get up again And try, with bruisèd knees, to smile— Sweet, you are blessèd all the while
And we in you: so wait, they’ll come To take your hand and fetch you home, In Heavenly leaves to play at tents With all the Holy Innocents.