Seven springs have come and passed Where each willow her green boughs me by, And spring sets in to-morrow. I've half a mind to shake myself Free just for once from London, To set my work upon the shelf And leave it done or undone ; To run down by the early train, Whirl down with shriek and whistle, And feel the bluff North blow again, And mark the sprouting thistle Set up on waste patch of the lane Its green and tender bristle; And spy the scarce-blown violet banks, Crisp primrose leaves and others, And watch the lambs leap at their pranks waves, Come April prime, come May. Under willows among the graves She met her lost love, ah welladay! Where in Autumn each wild wind raves And whirls sere leaves away. He looked at her with a smile, Then he passed by,- Under willows among the graves And butt their patient mothers. Under the water it must be cold: Winter comes cold when Summer's Alas one point in all my plan My serious thoughts demur to: Seven years have passed for maid and man, Seven years have passed for her too; Perhaps my rose is overblown, Not rosy or too rosy; Some husband keeps her cosy, Where I should show a face unknown. Good-bye, my wayside posy. UNDER WILLOWS UNDER willows among the graves One was walking, ah welladay! past: Though she live to be old, so old, She shall die at last. 27 July 1864. A SKETCH THE blindest buzzard that I know Does not wear wings to spread and stir: Nor does my special mole wear fur, And grub among the roots below: He sports a tail indeed, but then It's to a coat he's man with men: His quill is cut to a pen. In other points our friend's a mole, A buzzard, beyond scope of speech. He sees not what's within his reach, Misreads the part, ignores the whole; Misreads the part, so reads in vain, Ignores the whole though patent plain, Misreads both parts again. My blindest buzzard that I know, My special mole, when will you see? Oh no, you must not look at me, There's nothing hid for me to show. I might show facts as plain as day: But, since your eyes are blind, you'd say, 'Where? What?' and turn away. SONGS IN A CORNFIELD A SONG in a cornfield Where corn begins to fall, Where reapers are reaping, Reaping one, reaping all. Sing pretty Lettice, Sing Rachel, sing May; Only Marian cannot sing While her sweetheart's away. Where is he gone to And why does he stay? He came across the green sea But for a day, Across the deep green sea To help with the hay. His hair was curly yellow And his eyes were grey, He laughed a merry laugh And said a sweet say. Where is he gone to That he comes not home? To-day or to-morrow He surely will come. Let him haste to joy, Lest he lag for sorrow, For one weeps to-day Who'll not weep to-morrow; To-day she must weep For gnawing sorrow, May sang with Rachel In the waxing warm weather, Lettice sang with them, They sang all together : 'Take the wheat in your arm Whilst day is broad above, Take the wheat to your bosom, But not a false false love. Nothing that I may live thereby. My heart is broken in my breast, My breath is but a broken sigh— Oh if there be a land of rest It is far off, it is not nigh. If I had wings as hath a dove, If I had wings that I might fly, I yet would seek the land of love Where fountains run which run not dry: Though there be none that road to tell, And long that road is verily : Then if I lived I should do well, And if I died I should but die. |