MARCH WINDS
Winds go streaming, shouting loud,
At their play around the sky,
And my soul is like a cloud
Blown about with them on high.
Like a hawk unhooded, she
From my body broke away,
Longing for the company
Of the winds at holiday.
So she scours the skiey plain,
Wheeling, dipping in the blue—
Hawk-soul, cloud-soul, turn again!
What’s the lure to use for you?
COLOUR
The lovely things that I have watched unthinking,
Unknowing, day by day,
That their soft dyes had steeped my soul in colour
That will not pass away:—
Great saffron sunset clouds, and larkspur mountains,
And fenceless miles of plain,
And hillsides golden-green in that unearthly
Clear shining after rain;
And nights of blue and pearl; and long smooth beaches,
Yellow as sunburnt wheat,
Edged with a line of foam that creams and hisses,
Enticing weary feet;
And emeralds, and sunset-hearted opals,
And Asian marble, veined
With scarlet flame; and cool green jade, and moonstones,
Misty and azure-stained;