If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud, And the warm wind is neither still nor loud, Perhaps my secret I may say, Or you may guess. ANOTHER SPRING. If I might see another Spring I'd not plant summer flowers and wait : I'd have my crocuses at once, My leafless pink mezereons, My chill-veined snowdrops, choicer yet My white or azure violet, Leaf-nested primrose; anything To blow at once not late. If I might see another Spring I'd listen to the daylight birds That build their nests and pair and sing, Nor wait for mateless nightingale ; I'd listen to the lusty herds, The ewes with lambs as white as snow, I'd find out music in the hail And all the winds that blow. If I might see another Spring— A PEAL OF BELLS. Strike the bells wantonly, Tinkle tinkle well; Bring me wine, bring me flowers, Ring the silver bell. All my lamps burn scented oil, Hung on laden orange trees, Whose shadowed foliage is the foil Golden fruit, fresh-plucked and ripe; Strike the bells and breathe the pipe; Shut out showers from summer hours— Silence that complaining lute Shut out thinking, shut out pain, From hours that cannot come again. Strike the bells solemnly, Ding dong deep : My friend is passing to his bed, Fast asleep; There's plaited linen round his head, While foremost go his feet— His feet that cannot carry him. My feast's a show, my lights are dim Be still, your music is not sweet,— There is no music more for him; ; His lights are out, his feast is done; His bowl that sparkled to the brim His death is full, and mine begun. |