The Poetical Works of David Gray / A New and Enlarged Edition

by David Gray

Now, gentle reader, as I live, This snowy little bloom did give My being most endearing throes. I saw my father in his prime; But youth it comes, and youth it goes, And he has spent his blithest time: Yet dearer grown thro’ all to me, And dearer the anemone.

So with the spirit of a sage I pluck’d it from its hermitage, And placed it ’tween the sacred leaves Of Agnes’ Eve at that rare part Where she her fragrant robe unweaves, And with a gently beating heart, In troubled bliss and balmy woe, Lies down to dream of Porphyro.

Let others sing of that and this, In war and science find their bliss; Vainly they seek and will not find The subtle lore that nature brings Unto the reverential mind, The pathos worn by common things, By every flower that lights the lea, And by the pale anemone.

The Yellowhammer.

When delicate April in each dell Was silently completing Her ministry in bud and bell, To grace the summer’s meeting; My birchen tree of glossy rind Determined not to be behind; So with a subtle power The buds began to flower.

And I could watch from out my house The twigs with leaflets thicken; From glossy rind to twining boughs The milky sap ’gan quicken. And when the fragrant form was green No fairer tree was to be seen, All Gartshore woods adorning, Where doves are always mourning.

But never dove with liquid wing, Or neck of changeful gleaming, Came near my garden tree to sing Or croodle out its meaning. But this sweet day, an hour ago, A yellowhammer clear and low, In love and tender pity Thrilled out his dainty ditty.

And I was pleased, as you may think, And blessed the little singer: ‘O fly for your mate to Luggie brink, Dear little bird! and bring her; And build your nest among the boughs, A sweet and cosy little house Where ye may well content ye, Since true love is so plenty.

And when she sits upon her nest, Here are cool shades to shroud her.’ At this the singer sang his best, O louder yet, and louder; Until I shouted in my glee, His song had so enchanted me. No nightingale could pant on In joy so wise and wanton.