Across the land came a magic word
When the earth was bare and
lonely,
And I sit and sing of the joyous spring,
For 'twas I who heard, I only!
Then dreams came by, of the gladsome
days,
Of many a wayside posy;
For a crocus peeps where the wild rose
sleeps,
And the willow wands are rosy!
Oh! the time to be! When the paths
are green,
When the primrose-gold is lying
'Neath the hazel spray, where the catkins
sway,
And the dear south wind comes sigh-
ing.
My mate and I, we shall build a nest,
So snug and warm and cosy,
When the kingcups gleam on the meadow
stream,
Where the willow wands are rosy!
In Dorset Dear
In Dorset Dear they're making hay
In just the old West Country way.
With fork and rake and old-time gear
They make the hay in Dorset Dear.
From early morn till twilight grey
They toss and turn and shake the hay.
And all the countryside is gay
With roses on the fallen may,
For 'tis the hay-time of the year
In Dorset Dear.
The loaded waggons wend their way
Across the pasture-lands, and stay
Beside the hedge where foxgloves peer;
And ricks that shall be fashioned here
Will be the sweetest stuff, they say,
In Dorset Dear!
The Flight of the Fairies
There's a rustle in the woodlands,
and a sighing in the breeze,
For the Little Folk are busy in the bushes
and the trees;
They are packing up their treasures, every
one with nimble hand,
Ready for the coming journey back to
sunny Fairyland.
They have gathered up the jewels from
their beds of mossy green,
With all the dewy diamonds that summer
morns have seen;
The silver from the lichen and the
powdered gold dust, too,
Where the buttercups have flourished and
the dandelions grew.
They packed away the birdies' songs,
then, lest we should be sad,
They left the Robin's carol out, to make
the winter glad;
They packed the fragrance of the flowers,
then, lest we should forget,
Out of the pearly scented box they
dropped a Violet.
Then o'er a leafy carpet, by the silent
woods they came,
Where the golden bracken lingered and
the maples were aflame.
On the stream the starlight shimmered, o'er
their wings the moonbeams shone,
Music filtered through the forest—and the
Little Folk were gone!
The Street Player
The shopping had been tedious, and
the rain
Came pelting down as she turned home
again.
The motor-bus swirled past with rush and
whirr,
Nought but its fumes of petrol left for
her.
The bloaters in her basket, and the cheese
Malodorously mixed themselves with
these.
And all seemed wrong. The world was
drab and grey
As the slow minutes wept themselves
away.
And then, athwart the noises of the street,
A violin flung out an Irish air.
"I'll take you home again, Kathleen."
Ah, sweet,
How tender-sweet those lilting phrases
were!
They soothed away the weariness, and
brought
Such peace to one worn woman, over-
wrought,
That she forgot the things which vexed
her so:
The too outrageous price of calico,
The shop-girl's look of pitying insolence
Because she paused to count the dwindling
pence.
The player stopped. But the rapt vision
stayed.
That woman faced life's worries unafraid.
The sugar shortage now had ceased to be
An insurmountable calamity.
Her kingdom was not bacon, no, nor
butter,
But things more costly still, too rare to
utter.
And, over chimney-pots, so bare and tall,
The sun set gloriously, after all.