Primavera | Page 7

bravely fed.

And Sleep, I wot, will grudge us not his best:
In winter earlier sink
the suns to rest,
And eke the sooner shall our toils be sped;
When in
the embers glowing
There'll be love-charms worth the knowing,
Or,
at Yule-tide, mazes threaded, with the mistletoe o'erhead.
ARTHUR S. CRIPPS.

O Summer sun, O moving trees!
O cheerful human noise, O busy
glittering street!
What hour shall Fate in all the future find,
Or what
delights, ever to equal these:
Only to taste the warmth, the light, the
wind,
Only to be alive, and feel that life is sweet?
LAURENCE BINYON.
MENTEM MORTALIA TANGUNT
Now lonely is the wood:
No flower now lingers, none!
The virgin
sisterhood
Of roses, all are gone;
Now Autumn sheds her latest leaf;

And in my heart is grief.
Ah me, for all earth rears,
The appointed bound is placed!
After a
thousand years
The great oak falls at last:
And thou, more lovely,
canst not stay,
Sweet rose, beyond thy day.
Our life is not the life
Of roses and of leaves;
Else wherefore this
deep strife,
This pain, our soul conceives?
The fall of ev'n such
short-lived things
To us some sorrow brings.
And yet, plant, bird, and fly
Feel no such hidden fire.
Happy they
live; and die
Happy, with no desire.
They in their brief life have
fulfill'd
All Nature in them will'd.
And were we also made
Of like terrestrial mould
We should not be
afraid,
Nor feel the grave so cold;
But, all oblivious of our fate,

Live sweetly out our date.
For the great mother loves
Her children far too well;
These
longings that she moves
Their own fulfilment tell:
She would not
burden us with aught
We really needed not.
O, not in vain she gave
To the wild birds their wings!
They spread

them forth, and have
Heaven for their wanderings.
But we, to
whom no wings are given
Why seek we for a Heaven?
And, when far o'er us fly
Those voyagers of the air,
Why must we
gaze, and sigh,
_O would that I were there?_
Why are we restless,
ill content,
Tied to one element?
'Tis not that in our tears
Some happier life we crave;
Our happiest,
sweetest years
Mysterious moments have:
The sense of our brief
human lot
Clings to us, haunts our thought.
O then this pleasant earth
Seems but an alien thing:
Faint grows her
busy mirth;
Far hence our thoughts take wing:
For some enduring
home we cry!
She cannot satisfy,
Or bind us: only ties
Immortal found can bless;
Only in loving eyes

We see our happiness;
Only upon a loving breast
Our souls find
any rest.
Why thirsts the spirit so
For life? what moves it thus?
'Tis _her_
voice; yes, I know,
'Tis Nature cries in us:
'Tis no unholy strife of
ours
Against forbidding powers.
What though we gaze with fear,
So blank death seems to be;
What
though no land appear
Beyond that lonely sea;
Still in our hearts her
cry doth stay;
She will find out a way.
So in the chrysalis
Slumber those lovely wings;
So from the shell it
is
The dazzling pearl she brings:
Her glorious works she works
alone,
Unfathom'd and unknown!
MANMOHAN GHOSE.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Primavera, by

Stephen
Phillips, Laurence Binyon, Manmohan Ghose and Arthur Shearly

Cripps
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