SPRING MORNING
Now the moisty wood discloses
Wrinkled leaves of primèroses,
While the birds, they flute and sing:
Build your nests, for here is Spring.
All about the open hills
Daisies shew their peasant frills,
Washed and white and newly spun
For a festival of sun.
Like a blossom from the sky,
Drops a yellow butterfly,
Dancing down the hedges grey
Snow-bestrewn till yesterday.
Squirrels skipping up the trees
Smell how Spring is in the breeze,
While the birds, they flute and sing:
Build your nests, for here is Spring.
A RECOLLECTION
My father's friend came once to tea.
He laughed and talked. He spoke to me.
But in another week they said
That friendly pink-faced man was dead.
"How sad . ." they said, "the best of men . ."
So I said too, "How sad"; but then
Deep in my heart I thought with pride,
"I know a person who has died."