In February
‘I AM the boyish savor in the wind, the breath and uprising of flowers,
The young green milk in the sapling flowing,
The velvet down on the —’
The young green milk in the sapling flowing,
The velvet down on the —’
O heaven!—
As I walk home through the late winter dusk,
Making a song to the beat of my steps on the road,
The evening is full of the whisper of birds’ wings
And their twitter and scuffle in the bushes;
And once a thrush
In the lace of an overhanging bough
Gives that long low note
That April hears.
As I walk home through the late winter dusk,
Making a song to the beat of my steps on the road,
The evening is full of the whisper of birds’ wings
And their twitter and scuffle in the bushes;
And once a thrush
In the lace of an overhanging bough
Gives that long low note
That April hears.
The heavens above me
Are like the gray dappled flank of a horse;
They move westward in a body
Quicker than I can go.
When I look up into the sky
I feel like a straw
Thrown on to the surface of a racing stream,
Buffeted hither and thither,
Eddying — whirling — circling —
I stagger like a drunken man
When I look up.
Are like the gray dappled flank of a horse;
They move westward in a body
Quicker than I can go.
When I look up into the sky
I feel like a straw
Thrown on to the surface of a racing stream,
Buffeted hither and thither,
Eddying — whirling — circling —
I stagger like a drunken man
When I look up.
‘I am the boyish savor in the wind, the breath and uprising of flowers,
The young green milk in the sapling flowing,
The velvet down on the leaf;
I am the dreams in the far-away heavens,
The light on the edge of the cloud.
The young green milk in the sapling flowing,
The velvet down on the leaf;
I am the dreams in the far-away heavens,
The light on the edge of the cloud.
I skip with the black-legged lambs in the orchard,
For me, too, is the veined udder stretched,
The mother patient and standing.
I pull at the teat with my fellows,
The sweet milk comes in spurts,
And the warm infusion spreads over my body,
Giving me strength through my limbs.
I sing with the birds in the branches of the trees;
In a green gloom I sing the sorrowful cadences,
The love-plaint mingled with grief.
I am the hand that milks, the milk in the pail;
I am the springing of grasses and bursting of buds —
What though my spirit be locked in the loins of the hills —
Lo, I am the Spring!'
For me, too, is the veined udder stretched,
The mother patient and standing.
I pull at the teat with my fellows,
The sweet milk comes in spurts,
And the warm infusion spreads over my body,
Giving me strength through my limbs.
I sing with the birds in the branches of the trees;
In a green gloom I sing the sorrowful cadences,
The love-plaint mingled with grief.
I am the hand that milks, the milk in the pail;
I am the springing of grasses and bursting of buds —
What though my spirit be locked in the loins of the hills —
Lo, I am the Spring!'
A little air,
A little wanton air
Warm with the approach of flowers,
Whispers in the undergrowth
Or touches my cheek,
With sometimes such a meaning in it
As makes me stop, stock still,
And take great breaths deep down into the lower lungs,
Exulting, with rush of old memories
Released in the brain,
And sense of things far off,
And loveliness still to be sought for
And worshiped ever
Through the years to come.
A little wanton air
Warm with the approach of flowers,
Whispers in the undergrowth
Or touches my cheek,
With sometimes such a meaning in it
As makes me stop, stock still,
And take great breaths deep down into the lower lungs,
Exulting, with rush of old memories
Released in the brain,
And sense of things far off,
And loveliness still to be sought for
And worshiped ever
Through the years to come.
‘I am the boyish savor of the wind, the breath and uprising of flowers,
The young green milk in the sapling flowing,
The velvet down on the —’
The young green milk in the sapling flowing,
The velvet down on the —’
Hark!
As I turn in at the gate at the bottom of the garden,
That long, low note again.
The Thrush.
As I turn in at the gate at the bottom of the garden,
That long, low note again.
The Thrush.
He is late.
He should be with the other birds
Somewhere in the fastness of the bushes,
With his soft brown head
Tucked under his wing,
Asleep.
Hark! Again — Again —
And now no more.
He should be with the other birds
Somewhere in the fastness of the bushes,
With his soft brown head
Tucked under his wing,
Asleep.
Hark! Again — Again —
And now no more.
O God, I cry, give me the song of the birds,
The need to sing each transient flash as it passes,
Happy or sad.
Roll back from my mind like clouds
The confusions and inhibitions of my mortality,
The spectres of Doubt and Fear, enthroned in the mind,
Obscuring the sense of Thy loveliness
As it comes to me ever;
Driving it underground
To grope deep channels there, sightless and blind,
While Death keeps state above.
Let me slip the cerements of my mortal heritage
And mingle in essence with Thine onrushing Life,
Everlasting and divine,
Through birds and trees and rivers and flowers,
Through days and years;
Then shall I sing as this thrush
From the pressure of Beauty within
And Beauty without;
Then shall I sing as this thrush,
And my song will be true.
The need to sing each transient flash as it passes,
Happy or sad.
Roll back from my mind like clouds
The confusions and inhibitions of my mortality,
The spectres of Doubt and Fear, enthroned in the mind,
Obscuring the sense of Thy loveliness
As it comes to me ever;
Driving it underground
To grope deep channels there, sightless and blind,
While Death keeps state above.
Let me slip the cerements of my mortal heritage
And mingle in essence with Thine onrushing Life,
Everlasting and divine,
Through birds and trees and rivers and flowers,
Through days and years;
Then shall I sing as this thrush
From the pressure of Beauty within
And Beauty without;
Then shall I sing as this thrush,
And my song will be true.