* * * * *
There are other times when I must leave the clean waters and the good brown earth, to live, for a while, in London: and there I go on pilgrimage that I may listen to the river’s voice.
I stand sometimes at a wharf where the ships are being unloaded of the riches of every country, of fruits of labour by my unknown brothers in strange lands; and the river speaks of citizenship in the great world of God, wherein all men have place, each man have his own place, and every one should be neighbour to him who may have need.
I pass on to London Bridge, our Bridge of Sighs. How many of these my brethren have sought refuge in the cold grey arms of the river from something worse than death? What drove them to this dreadful resting-place? What spectre hurried them to the leap? These things, too, are my concern, the river says.
Life is very grim in London: it is not painted in the fair, glowing colours of grass and sky and trees, and shining streams that bring peace. It is drawn in hard black and white; but the voice of its dark waters must be heard all the same.
* * * * *
I would not leave my rivers in the shadow. After all, this life is only a prelude, a beginning: we pass on to where “the rivers and streams make glad the city of God.” But if we will not listen here how shall we understand hereafter.
Spring
Hark how the merry daffodils,
Fling golden music to the hills!
And how the hills send echoing down,
Through wind-swept turf and moorland brown,
The murmurs of a thousand rills
That mock the song-birds’ liquid trills!
The hedge released from Winter’s frown
Shews jewelled branch and willow crown;
While all the earth with pleasure trills,
And ‘dances with the daffodils.’
Out, out, ye flowers! Up and shout!
Staid Winter’s passed and Spring’s about
To lead your ranks in joyous rout;
To string the hawthorn’s milky pearls,
And gild the grass with celandine;
To dress the catkins’ tasselled curls,
To twist the tendrils of the vine.
She wakes the wind-flower from her sleep,
And lights the woods with April’s moon;
The violets lift their heads to peep,
The daisies brave the sun at noon.