Part 21

THE SWEET O’ THE YEAR

NOW the frog, all lean and weak, Yawning from his famished sleep, Water in the ditch doth seek, Fast as he can stretch and leap: Marshy king-cups burning near Tell him ’tis the sweet o’ the year.

Now the ant works up his mound In the mouldered piny soil, And above the busy ground Takes the joy of earnest toil: Dropping pine-cones, dry and sere, Warn him ’tis the sweet o’ the year.

Now the chrysalis on the wall Cracks, and out the creature springs, Raptures in his body small, Wonders on his dusty wings: Bells and cups, all shining clear, Show him ’tis the sweet o’ the year.

Now the brown bee, wild and wise, Hums abroad, and roves and roams, Storing in his wealthy thighs Treasure for the golden combs: Dewy buds and blossoms dear Whisper ’tis the sweet o’ the year.

Now the merry maids so fair Weave the wreaths and choose the queen, Blooming in the open air, Like fresh flowers upon the green; Spring, in every thought sincere, Thrills them with the sweet o’ the year.

Now the lads, all quick and gay, Whistle to the browsing herds, Or in the twilight pastures grey Learn the use of whispered words: First a blush, and then a tear, And then a smile, i’ the sweet o’ the year.

Now the May-fly and the fish Play again from noon to night; Every breeze begets a wish, Every motion means delight: Heaven high over heath and mere Crowns with blue the sweet o’ the year.

Now all Nature is alive, Bird and beetle, man and mole; Bee-like goes the human hive, Lark-like sings the soaring soul: Hearty faith and honest cheer Welcome in the sweet o’ the year.

AUTUMN EVEN-SONG

THE long cloud edged with streaming grey Soars from the West; The red leaf mounts with it away, Showing the nest A blot among the branches bare: There is a cry of outcasts in the air.

Swift little breezes, darting chill, Pant down the lake; A crow flies from the yellow hill, And in its wake A baffled line of labouring rooks: Steel-surfaced to the light the river looks.

Pale on the panes of the old hall Gleams the lone space Between the sunset and the squall; And on its face Mournfully glimmers to the last: Great oaks grow mighty minstrels in the blast.

Pale the rain-rutted roadways shine In the green light Behind the cedar and the pine: Come, thundering night! Blacken broad earth with hoards of storm: For me yon valley-cottage beckons warm.

THE SONG OF COURTESY

WHEN Sir Gawain was led to his bridal-bed, By Arthur’s knights in scorn God-sped:— How think you he felt? O the bride within Was yellow and dry as a snake’s old skin; Loathly as sin! Scarcely faceable, Quite unembraceable; With a hog’s bristle on a hag’s chin!— Gentle Gawain felt as should we, Little of Love’s soft fire knew he: But he was the Knight of Courtesy.

When that evil lady he lay beside Bade him turn to greet his bride, What think you he did? O, to spare her pain, And let not his loathing her loathliness vain Mirror too plain, Sadly, sighingly, Almost dyingly, Turned he and kissed her once and again. Like Sir Gawain, gentles, should we? Silent, all! But for pattern agree There’s none like the Knight of Courtesy.

III

Sir Gawain sprang up amid laces and curls: Kisses are not wasted pearls:— What clung in his arms? O, a maiden flower, Burning with blushes the sweet bride-bower, Beauty her dower! Breathing perfumingly; Shall I live bloomingly, Said she, by day, or the bridal hour? Thereat he clasped her, and whispered he, Thine, rare bride, the choice shall be. Said she, Twice blest is Courtesy!

Of gentle Sir Gawain they had no sport, When it was morning in Arthur’s court; What think you they cried? Now, life and eyes! This bride is the very Saint’s dream of a prize, Fresh from the skies! See ye not, Courtesy Is the true Alchemy, Turning to gold all it touches and tries? Like the true knight, so may we Make the basest that there be Beautiful by Courtesy!

THE THREE MAIDENS

THERE were three maidens met on the highway; The sun was down, the night was late: And two sang loud with the birds of May, O the nightingale is merry with its mate.

Said they to the youngest, Why walk you there so still? The land is dark, the night is late: O, but the heart in my side is ill, And the nightingale will languish for its mate.

Said they to the youngest, Of lovers there is store; The moon mounts up, the night is late: O, I shall look on man no more, And the nightingale is dumb without its mate.

Said they to the youngest, Uncross your arms and sing; The moon mounts high, the night is late: O my dear lover can hear no thing, And the nightingale sings only to its mate.

They slew him in revenge, and his true-love was his lure; The moon is pale, the night is late: His grave is shallow on the moor; O the nightingale is dying for its mate.

His blood is on his breast, and the moss-roots at his hair; The moon is chill, the night is late: But I will lie beside him there: O the nightingale is dying for its mate.

OVER THE HILLS