Come, with a simple word and wise
Quicken my brain,
And while upon the painted pane
The painted butterflies
Beat in the early April beams,
You shall instruct
My spirit in the knowledge plucked
From your still Dorset dreams.
Your word shall strive with no obscure
Debated text,
Your vision being unperplexed,
Your loving purpose pure.
I know you’ll speak of April flowers,
Or lambs in pen,
Or happy-hearted maids and men
Weaving their April hours.
Or rising to your thought will come,
For lessoning,
Those lovers of an older spring,
That now in tombs are dumb.
And brooding in your theme shall be,
Half said, half heard,
The presage of a poet’s word
To mock mortality.
. . . . . . . . . .
The years are on your grave the while,
And yet, almost,
I think to see your surpliced ghost
Stand hesitant in the aisle,
Find me sole congregation there,
Assess my mood,
Know mine a kindred solitude,
And climb the pulpit-stair.
BUDS
The raining hour is done,
And, threaded on the bough,
The May-buds in the sun
Are shining emeralds now.