All Round the Year | Page 2

is set,?On cowslip, hyacinth and violet,?And all day long the woodland minstrels sing?Changes of measure for her pleasuring.
And all night long a passionate music stirs?Without her walls--the darkened belt of firs;?Hushed in their waving boughs the low winds brood,?Murmuring the sea's song for an interlude.
_Caris Brooke._
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The last bright relic of the moon's full gold?Burns on the swiftly flowing river's breast;?No sound but restless dipping of strong oars?To break the charm of nature's perfect rest.
Far off the town's faint mingled clamours stir,?And through the silence of the nearer light?The incense of the evening mist floats up--?The day's last lingering love-word to the night.
A sudden shiver of regretful change?Sighs through the whispering boughs that overhead?Sway in the wind's breath: down the red sun dips,?And in the twilight's arms the day lies dead.
Then rain, and after, moonshine cold and fair,?And scent of earth, sweet with the evening rain,?And slow soft speech beneath the rain-washed trees,?Ah, that such things should never come again!
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Oh listening trees, where are the words we spoke??Where are our sighs, wind whom those sighs caressed??Oh! what a fate is ours, too swift, too sad,?If such an hour goes by with all the rest!
_E. Nesbit._
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What o'clock is it, children dear??Ask of the dandelions here!?Blow, blow, blow, and away they go--?But they do not tell us the time you know!
Say, what month is it, children dear??We think it is August because we hear?The swing of the sickle, restless and slow,?And that's a sign of the month, you know.
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Where are you going, children dear??Where the lane winds deep and the stream runs clear--?There are plenty of beautiful ways to go--?But only one way that two only know.
Where are _we_ going, children dear??To a beautiful country that's very near,?Hand in hand is the way to go?Up into fairyland you know.
_E. Nesbit._
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HOP PICKING.
Ah me, how pleasant to go down?From the forlorn and faded town?To Kentish wood and fold and lane,?And breathe God's blessed air again;?Where glorious yellow corn-fields blaze?And nuts hang over woodland ways.
To pick the sweet keen-scented hops,?(See from each pole a dream-wreath drops)?To toil all day in pure clear air,?Laughter and sunshine everywhere--?With reddening woods and sweet wet soil?And well-earned rest and honest toil.
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Where do we fly, under deep dark sky?
Over the moors we go,?Over the pool where quiet and cool
Bulrush and sedges grow--?And what was the loveliest thing we met?
Ah--we forget!
We remember though all the firelit glow
Of a great hearth's gleam and glare,?And we looked for a space at each happy face
And the love that was written there.?And that, of all we have looked on yet--
We least forget!
[Illustration: Hallowe'en.]
Oh what a day! all yellow and gray,?And so dark, so dreary, so foggy and thick,
That if I should meet?In the street?My sweet--?I might pass her by!?Risk that? Not I!?Take me home out of danger then! Quick, feet, quick.
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Not Summer's crown of scent the red rose weaves?Nor hawthorn blossom over bloom-strewn grass,?Nor violet's whisper when the children pass,?Nor lilac perfume in the soft May eves,?Nor new-mown hay, crisp scent of yellow sheaves,?Nor any scent that Spring-time can amass?And Summer squander, such a magic has?As scent of fresh wet earth and fallen leaves.
For sometimes lovers in November days,?When earth is grieving for the vanished sun,?Have trod dead leaves in chill and wintry ways,?And kissed and dreamed eternal Summer won;?Look back, look back! through memories' deepening haze,?See--two who dreamed that dream, and you were one.
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THE LOVER TO HIS LASS.
Dearest, the Winter is here!?"It will be sad," so you said,?"When no green leaves overhead?Shadow the paths where we tread!"?I said "It still will be dear?If we still meet,?O my sweet!"
See how the seasons are kind!?See this December forget?How to be weary and wet!?Hardly our June I regret,?Winter so comely I find?Since you are here,?O my dear!
Sweetheart, I sometimes believe,?Love, not the sun, makes us glad;?Even the mists were not sad?If your soft hand-clasp I had.?Hearts sing, though skies mourn and grieve,?All weather's fair?If you're there!
Someday a home there shall be,?Love shall be sun of it, sweet!?Joy shall be full and complete--?Sound of small voices and feet;?While, like the sunshine, for me,?You light up life--?You--my wife!
BEFORE PARTING.
Now surely is the hour come for farewell,?Now, with the lessened light and darkened days.?Who now would tread the wild hill's pathless ways??We found so fair when Spring and Summer's spell?Made blind our hearts this parting to foretell.?Yet why, while wan and wintry sunlight stays?On perished gold of Autumn fields, delays?Your heart to speak, while both our hearts rebel??Together we have gathered through the year?All that the year could give us of its best,?Is it not meet our parting should be here,?Now in the season drear of death and rest??Yet since together we its joys have known?How shall each meet the strange New Year alone.
_Caris Brooke._
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[Illustration: The End]
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End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of All Round the Year, by Edith Nesbit and