And I long, as I laugh and listen,
For the angel-hour that shall bring
My part, pre-ordained and appointed,
In the miracle of Spring.
XI
What doth the blackbird in the boughs
Sing all day to his nested spouse?
What but the song of his old Mother-Earth,
In her mighty humour of lust and mirth?
‘Love and God’s will go wing and wing,
And as for death, is there any such thing?’—
In the shadow of death,
So, at the beck of the wizard Spring
The dear bird saith—
So the bird saith!
Caught with us all in the nets of fate,
So the sweet wretch sings early and late;
And, O my fairest, after all,
The heart of the World’s in his innocent call.
The will of the World’s with him wing and wing:—
‘Life—life—life! ’Tis the sole great thing
This side of death,
Heart on heart in the wonder of Spring!’
So the bird saith—
The wise bird saith!
XII
This world, all hoary
With song and story,
Rolls in a glory
Of youth and mirth;
Above and under
Clothed on with wonder.
Sunrise and thunder,
And death and birth.
His broods befriending
With grace unending
And gifts transcending
A god’s at play,
Yet do his meetness
And sovran sweetness
Hold in the jocund purpose of May.
So take your pleasure,
And in full measure
Use of your treasure,
When birds sing best!
For when heaven’s bluest,
And earth feels newest,
And love longs truest,
And takes not rest:
When winds blow cleanest,
And seas roll sheenest,
And lawns lie greenest:
Then, night and day,
Dear life counts dearest,
And God walks nearest
To them that praise Him, praising His May.
XIII
I talked one midnight with the jolly ghost
Of a gray ancestor, Tom Heywood hight;
And, ‘Here’s,’ says he, his old heart liquor-lifted—
‘Here’s how we did when Gloriana shone:’