Many Voices | Page 7

the year;?How to the skylark's song are set?The days we never can forget.?At Rustington, do you remember??We heard the skylarks in December;?In January above the snow?They sang to us by Hurstmonceux?Once in the keenest airs of March?We heard them near the Marble Arch;?Their April song thrilled Tonbridge air;?May found them singing everywhere;?And oh, in Sheppey, how their tune?Rhymed with the bean-flower scent in June.?One unforgotten day at Rye?They sang a love-song in July;?In August, hard by Lewes town,?They sang of joy 'twixt sky and down;?And in September's golden spell?We heard them singing on Scaw Fell.?October's leaves were brown and sere,?But skylarks sang by Teston Weir;?And in November, at Mount's Bay,?They sang upon our wedding day!
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Mr.-a-Field, go forth, go forth,?Go east and west and south and north;?You'll always find the furze in flower,?Find every hour the lovers' hour,?And, by my faith in love and rhyme,?The skylark singing all the time!
POEM: SATURDAY SONG
They talk about gardens of roses,?And moonlight over the sea,?And mountains and snow?And sunsetty glow,?But I know what is best for me.?The prettiest sight I know,?Worth all your roses and snow,?Is the blaze of light on a Saturday night,?When the barrows are set in a row.
I've heard of bazaars in India?All glitter and spices and smells,?But they don't compare?With the naphtha flare?And the herrings the coster sells;?And the oranges piled like gold,?The cucumbers lean and cold,?And the red and white block-trimmings?And the strawberries fresh and ripe,?And the peas and beans,?And the sprouts and greens,?And the 'taters and trotters and tripe.
And the shops where they sell the chairs,?The mangles and tables and bedding,?And the lovers go by in pairs,?And look--and think of the wedding.?And your girl has her arm in yours,?And you whisper and make her blush.?Oh! the snap in her eyes--and her smiles and her sighs?As she fancies the purple plush!
And you haven't a penny to spend,?But you dream that you've pounds and pounds;?And arm in arm with your only friend?You make your Saturday rounds:?And you see the cradle bright?With ribbon--lace--pink and white;?And she stops her laugh?And you drop your chaff?In the light of the Saturday night.?And the world is new?For her and you -?A little bit of all-right.
POEM: THE CHAMPION
Young and a conqueror, once on a day,?Wild white Winter rode out this way;?With his sword of ice and his banner of snow?Vanquished the Summer and laid her low.
Winter was young then, young and strong;?Now he is old, he has reigned too long.?He shall be routed, he shall be slain;?Summer shall come to her own again!
See the champion of Summer wake?Little armies in field and brake:?"Cruel and cold has King Winter been;?Fight for the Summer, fight for the Queen!"
First the aconite dots the mould?With little round cannon-balls of gold;?Then, to help in the winter's rout,?Regiments of crocuses march out.
See the swords of the flag-leaves shine;?See the shield of the celandine,?And daffodil lances green and keen,?To fight for the Summer, fight for the Queen.
Silver triumphant the snowdrop swings?Banners that mock at defeated kings;?And wherever the green of the new grass peers,?See the array of victorious spears.
Daffodil trumpets soon shall sound?Over the garden's battle-ground,?And lovely ladies crowd out to see?The long procession of victory.
Little daisies with snowy frills,?Courtly tulips and sweet jonquils,?Primrose and cowslip, friends well met?With white wood-sorrel and violet.
Hundreds of milkmaids by field and fold;?Thousands of buttercups licked with gold;?Budding hedges and woods and trees -?Spring brings freedom and life to these.
Then the triumphant Spring shall ride?Over the happy countryside;?Deep in the woods the birds shall sing:?"The King is dead--long live the King!"
But Spring is no king, but a faithful knight;?He will ride on through the meadows bright?Till at Summer's feet he shall light him down?And lay at her feet the royal crown.
She will lean down where the roses twine?Between the may-trees' silver shine,?And look in the eyes of the dying knight?Who led his army and won her fight.
She will stoop to his lips and say,?"Oh, live, O love! O my true love, stay!"?While he smiles and sighs her arms between?And dies for the Summer, dies for the Queen.
POEM: THE GARDEN REFUSED
There is a garden made for our delight,?Where all the dreams we dare not dream come true.?I know it, but I do not know the way.?We slip and tumble in the doubtful night,?Where everything is difficult and new,?And clouds our breath has made obscure the day.
The blank unhappy towns, where sick men strive,?Still doing work that yet is never done;?The hymns to Gold that drown their desperate voice;?The weeds that grow where once corn stood alive,?The black injustice that puts out the sun:?These are our portion, since they are our choice.
Yet there the garden blows with rose on rose,?The sunny, shadow-dappled lawns are there;?There the immortal lilies, heavenly sweet.?O roses, that for us shall not unclose!?O lilies, that we shall not pluck or wear!?O dewy lawns untrodden by