She silently spedAs a star at mornIn the saffron track,Of the day, dew-born,Leaving a longingIntensely strongTo own for myselfThe gold of the song.The city I'll leaveWith footstep bold,To seek for myselfThe Beggar's Gold.
I woke and found a leaf upon the floor,And two more golden leaves outside the door.
AIREDALE.
THE LOVER:
Why not rise with dawn, my Lady?Why miss these sweet hours?Come with me: the ghyll is shady,Carpeted with flowers;Why miss these sweet hours?
Now thou liest a-bed, my jewel,How canst thou still sleep?To encase thyself is cruel—Beauty thus to keep.How canst thou still sleep?
HIS LADY:
At this hour, my simple lover,I prefer to restThan to watch the tireless ploverRise from dewy nest;I prefer to rest.
Beauty such as mine, my lover,(This I know is right)Even thou wilt soon discoverIs more meet for night(This I know is right).
THE SONG-MAKER:
In the daytime chirp the thrushes;But the nightingaleWaits until the moonlit hushesTo pour forth her tale;Wiser nightingale!
O! Gold I lack; I am a manWho cannot give as others can;No costly gems of value rareAre mine to give, my Lady Fair!
Yet would I give, and of my best,So delve the kingdom of mine eyes:What say'st thou to a rope of pearlsStrung from the cirro-clouded skies?
A sunlit beck, just after rain,Should from its ripples lend a chainOf sparkling diamonds, very meetTo grace thy wrist, my Lady Sweet.
A peaty tarn, lost 'mong the hills,Of beryl tint should make a ring;The moors should yield a coronetOf amethyst, from summer ling.*****Rubies?Already thou hast two!They are the gems for which I sue.
RIBBLESDALE.
There are many, many forests lying north, south, east, and west,There are many, many rivers moving slowly to the sea,But there's a wood of budding beech that claims the heart of me,And there's a little singing beck that falls from heathered crest.
O! I would give the universe to own that singing stream,And watch the stars a-hiding from the rosy-fingered morn,While cuckoos wake the fellside, and daffodils are born—O! any one can have the world, so I may keep my stream—
Yet would I barter beechen wood and little singing beckIf I could fold my arms once more around my sweetheart's neck.
NIDDERDALE.
The ship is speeding fast from out the bay,Instead of thine, I feel a kiss of spray;My face is lashed by salt winds from the sea,My eyes are wet with parting now from thee.O Husband Sweetheart! send to me a thought—Some loving word, perchance my lips have taught!
The evening fades to purple, darkly blue,The air is chill, a few white stars creep throughThe steely buckler of the northern sky;One lonely sound recurs—a sew-mew's cry.O Husband Sweetheart! send thy heart to meAcross this tireless, surging, tossing sea!
To-night we're severed, many miles apart:I wonder, canst thou rest, my Dearest Heart?In Court of Dreams perhaps we'll briefly meetAnd kiss upon the Borderland of Sleep.O Husband Sweetheart! say for me a prayer—God give you peace, and have you in His care!
OFF THE YORKSHIRE COAST.
You and King Yesterday both have fledTo the Land-of-the-beautiful-days-that-are-dead.
How full of bird music the dewy-fair MornWhen Yesterday, King of the Past, was born;
How rosy with roses the passionate noonWhen you and King Yesterday ruled sweet June;
How royal with splendour the crimsoning westAs Yesterday bravely grew old with zest;
And eve was a glamour of emerald lightWhen Yesterday greeted the world "Good-night."
Oh! You and King Yesterday gently weanMy thoughts to the Country-it-might-have-been.
Thou canst not kiss without consent,For know, dear Thief, a kiss is lent;And if thou takest one to-day,With interest must thou repay:One now, next week I'll count in fives,—Thou'lt owe some scores in Paradise!
TANFIELD, WENSLEYDALE.
Some tell me "Life is a weariful thing,That Sorrow remains, while joy takes wing."But Sorrow and I already have met:His face is wan and his lips are set;He cometh and goeth on silent feet,Yet between his visits are moments sweet,Moments that come like a blackbird's dart,When Happiness holds me close to his heart;When I sense the rapture of swinging skiesAnd know the thrill of the spring's surprise,As I lie on the mothering Earth's deep breastAnd clasp my tremulous bosom, lestSome unknown loveliness I might miss,Or forgetful be of the West Wind's kiss.
Like the blackbird's notes in the early hoursWhich fall like a peal of silver flowers,Joy rings his bells in my waiting ears,And Sorrow departs to his silent meres."And if he returns?"—my soul will singRemembering Joy who has taken wing!
RILSTONE FELL.
(To My First Love, Daddy)
A thrush's callHas chanced to fallInto my heartWhere dwell apartDear memoriesOf summer skies,Of heartsome days,Of flower-fair ways,Of kisses shyWith people high.What did I kenOf lovers then,Of lover-laws,Of lover-saws?The sweet, sweet earthWas giving birthTo lovely thingsWith songs and wings;And yonder thrushOn yonder bushBrings home to meThe little years of memory.
(There is a country saying that spring has not come until you can set your foot on seven daisies at once)
"O! How do you knowWhen spring has come?Still falls the snowAnd the birds are dumb."
The grass will wearA greener tone,The thrush will dareTo carol alone.
The silver rainWill warmly fall,The woods will gainThe blackbird's call.
But the way to tell,And the only way,Is to find a dellWhere the breezes play,
And seek and seekWhere the daisy-bloomShows white and meekLike a baby moon.
And when your foot treadsWith tender fearOn seven white heads,—Then spring is here.
COXWOLD.
(For My Little God-son)
God Darling! Listen to my song,The one I sing the whole day long,Of thanks to Thee for every good,Whether at home, in field, or wood.
I thank Thee for the lovely spring,And for Thy little birds that sing;I thank Thee for the summer's sun,When 'mong the roses I can run.
I thank Thee for the sickle time,When corn is ripe, and apples prime.I thank Thee for the deep white snow,When I tobogganing can go.
I thank Thee for the bright sweet day,For hours of love and work and play;I thank Thee for the deep blue nightWhen I and flower-buds fold up tight.
NIDDERDALE.
"It was Moonlight Land and Past-ten-o'clock Land and we were in it and of it."—KENNETH GRAHAM.
There's a lovely land that is all your own,If your years but number ten,Where the cherryblossom's ever in flower,And found in "Past-ten-o'clock Glen."
There's a river with musical water-falls,You paddle as long as you please,And the daisies don't die as you pick them,When found on "Past-ten-o'clock Leas."
And the rivulet leads to a harbour,Full of the quaintest of ships,One wish will transport you to China,Or other "Past-ten-o'clock Trips."
Away in dim mountains of amber,Which drop sheer down to the waves,Fierce brigands, be-weaponed and ear-ringed,Live in "Past-ten-o'clock Caves."
O! the folk understand you and love you,You never can do any wrong—You can shoot the cat with a catapult,Or shout the "Past-ten-o'clock Song."
You can play you are really an otter,And get as wet as you like;You can lie in wait as a Redskin does,In a deep "Past-ten-o'clock Dyke."
It's a lovely land that is all your own,If you're only ten years old,But when you are more, you are apt to forget"Past-Ten-o'clock-Dreams of Gold!"
BARDEN FELL, WHARFEDALE.
Mem'ry, sweet witch! you brought him to my door.I heard you knock, and saw your fingers opeThe rosy gateway of a lingering hope,And I beheld his dear face as of yore.You held him by the hand I oft caressed,And seemed so small a sprite by his tall side,As in his leathern coat you tried to hide,The same old coat my cheek so often pressed.
Then searchingly his deep blue eyes found mine,As if to plead against forgetfulness,With all the old-time loving kindliness:And then you led him back without one sign.Sweet little Mem'ry, lead him back once more,And, knocking, bring him in, and close the door.
Morning
The day is just beginning,But all the long night through,The sailor-men were watchingOut in the dark night blue.Dear God! when my turn comes,May my watch be as true.
Evening
The long, still night is coming,But whilst I've been at play,The soldier-men were fightingThro' all the live-long day.Dear God! when my turn comes,Please keep me brave as they.
ROBIN HOOD'S BAY.
One summer eve, my own dear love and ISat arm-entwined beneath a rowan-tree.A little wind flew past us with a sigh,And all the velvet leaves waved merrily.Then, as mine eyes escaped his ardent glance,I saw a star peep o'er the purple hillAnd climb up to the topmost branch and dance,And wink at its reflection in the rill."Come, kiss me once, O timorous-hearted Love.Full many thousand kisses dost thou owe.Prithee but one, thy pretty love to prove;No one in all the world shall ever know."No one? That spying star but told a poet,And in a song he let the whole world know it.
For the Mothers, Wives, and Sweetheartsof the 15th West Yorks ("Leeds Pals")
'Tis passing wonderful that they,The little boys of yesterday,Should suddenly become such menThat England rings with praise of them.But tho' their names are writ in blood—Deepening crimson flood on flood—Their impositions writ awryAnd copybooks are hardly dry;And Sweetheart Life had scarcely kissedThe boy to man, when the blue mistOf twilight lifted; and the dawnAnnounced that rosy day was born.
As pink-curled clouds lit up the skyA little gentle breeze whisked byCaressing all the poppy-heads—Rippling fields of budding reds—Splashes of yellow sunned the earthWhere mustard meadows flowered mirth;And cornflowers blue ran out to meetThe blue around God's Mercy-seat.O! all the world and all the skyMade it a sacrifice to die.
'Tis passing wonderful that they,The little boys of yesterday,Who cuddled to dear Mother-heartsWith darling rosy-fingered arts,Did cheer with strong expectancyThe shattering artillery;And smilingly went o'er the topUnflinchingly without a stopInto the poppied "No Man's Land."Wave after wave, band after band,Through the terror of bursting shells,Through the noise of a thousand hells,Through th' unmanning groans of pain,Through the blood of the splendid slainLying under a blue-cupped sky,As wave after wave swept bravely by.From flowers of blue to the Endless BlueHundreds of souls are passing thro',And the poppies weep o'er the red-spilled lives:O! at home are the mothers, the waiting wives.
'Tis passing wonderful that they,The little boys of yesterdayWho played with us, who teased us too,Should such tremendous actions do.No praise, no honour is too highFor those who gave so cheerfully:Gave up the wonder of the spring,Gave up the wealth that summers bring,Gave up the gold of autumn's store,Leaving us richer than before.
Unflinching bravery of soul!Ring out your splendid deathless toll,Ring down the years untiringlyIn the hearts of the children-yet-to-be.The carillon of your idealsYou'll hear again in their sweet peals;God grant that we may squarely fightFor all you held to be upright.
LEEDS,July 1st, 1917.
He should be strong—as strong as Thor of old;And faults of strength 'twere better he possessedThan quavering mind or any lack of zestWhen the time needs a right arm coolly bold.Truth should to him be what the unpent songIs to the soaring lark; with kindly thoughtFor everything that cold Misfortune's sought;With earnest faith to fight a cause proved wrong.
A heart that finds the best in every man;Impatient he should be at all delayOr if not giv'n at once his own sweet way—(But then a fault or two is Nature's plan),Yet I would wish his chiefest fault should beA wilfulness to see no fault in me!
SEMER WATER.
Hope and Spring! You are sisters!
In my woodlandsThe primroses are peepingWith pale, sweet golden eyes,In spite of Winter's weeping.
In my woodlandsA thrush has just swung, dipping,In search of his spring voice;The trees stand dripping, dripping.
In my woodlandsHarsh Winter coldly shivers;The windflower, white adventurer,With hope of springtime quivers.
Soon my woodlands,Bearing bannerets of Spring,Will be every moment musicalWith birds that, mating, sing.
Hope and Spring! You are sisters!
Oh, Spring! Spring!Since the Autumn died in glory,How I have yearned for your comingThro' the cloistral fog-bound days,Your beauty seemed a storyThat would never be told again.Spring! of the pearly cloud-skiesSoft-curled as a baby's hand,Turquoise as children's eyes,Of rainbow-tinctured daysAnd twittering song of the eaves!
Spring! You desired vision,The wind in your primrose hair,Your eyes, too, weepingly ready,Your face, an anemone fair;Your train, a burgeoning patternBe-sprent with woodland flowers,Blackthorn, daffies, bluebells,Marking the flight of our hours.
Spring! Tho' it still is Winter,In your mystic sleep you smile,Yet the primroses and the thrush on wingKnow that even in sleep you sing;You wondrous, envassaling, longed-for Maid!Oh! If Death came now I should be afraid:I have longed for you so the dark months thro',That I must see the pulsing glory of you;And your little hand-maidens in their turn—For each at their 'pointed times I yearn.
Virginal snowdrop,Firstling of Spring!Crocus, herald of purple and gold,Wistful windflowers,Celandined stars,Every one to my heart I fold.
Snow-soft blackthorn,You wild, fair sweet,The scent of you bringsA flutter of wings;And, almond blossom,You stole at dawnThe pale dream vestOf the infant morn.
Of a pool of blue I dream—Hyacinths, waving in ripples of blue.There is nothing so fair the whole world thro'As when quivering sun and quivering windJocundly, joyously, leapingly findA young green wood in a lazuli dream.
O Spring, if I lay on my dying bedI should wait to die, till your glory had fled,I could not go ere the cuckoo had criedHis impudent call to the countryside:Not till the swallows had loyally comeTo their nesting place, in my liefest home,And then I should wait for the blackbird's noteTo leap from his melody-stirring throat.Ah! And to feel the April rainPattering on my face again.God grant that I do not die in the Spring,When my whole soul rebels to live and sing;As we all must die, so let me dieWhen the grey November fogs are nigh;Not for a longer space of heavenWould I forfeit one day, nay, one single hour,One sweet bird-cry, or one haunting flower,Of my beautiful, longed-for, fleeting Spring.
Hope and Spring! You are sisters!
'Tis Winter still,But you stir in sleepTho' the cold gusts blowAnd the bare trees weep.
But the early primroseAnd flitting thrushHave watched you smileAnd have seen you blush.
And tho' it is longEre yet you rise,And the blue of your glanceReflect in the skies;
My heart is awakeAnd ready to singThe moment you beckon,Sweet, glorious Spring!
Hope and Spring! You are sisters!
PATELEY BRIDGE, NIDDERDALE,
O Seats of ancient learning, Philosophers and Sages!A child has put a question, which I cannot find in pagesOf any tome in any land: and so the answer's missed."Where do all the kisses go, after they are kissed?"
FIRST DAY
Hearken! The South Wind's voice.My lover returns, and the valleys rejoice.The bees fly upward to watch his flight,The butterflies quiver with glad delight,As he teasingly touches their jewelled wings.O! at his bidding the whitethroat swingsIn thrillant blue. A thrush's callBlends with a blackbird's madrigal.
I steadily gazed at my silent pen,Attempting to keep from my straying kenAn Eden of woods, of bosoming hills,Of verdant hedges, of wandering rills.How can one workWhen a Lover amid the flowers will lurk?He tip-toes in thro' the window-door,And whisks my papers on to the floor;With flower-steeped hands he caresses my hair,And whispers alluringly,
"Fair, most Fair,Slip your slender hand in mine, my Sweeting,Hear! the skylarks cleave the blue with greeting,Hear the blackcap on the thorn at evenTrill truths that echo to the highest heaven,Leave your world of carking care, time-haunted,For a country ever spring-enchaunted."
He leads me on to the dewy grass,Where maiden primroses troop and pass;With a gleesome kiss in his arms he swingsMe up 'twixt his eagle-wide rainbow wings:Over a willowy coppice he goesFlicking the hedges of milk-white sloes,Over the blazon of heralding gorse,Deftly he steers his ethereal courseOver anemone hillocks, o'er leas,Hyacinth-dimpled, o'er buttercupped leas,Over the ings where forget-me-not eyesBorrow the blue of azureal skies;Over the meadow-flats, higher and higher,Sweeping the strings of the cloud-strung lyre.The lilt of the planets is in mine ear,Crystal dropping on crystal clear:"O Wind, my Lover,My mortal eyes must you surely cover:Such beauty will make me beauty-blind,Protect mine eyes, O my Lover Wind."Then, as I lost my indrawn breath,He swirled me down to the earth beneath,Down thro' the depths of a forest of pine,On to a carpet of celandine.The goldcrests twittered, the squirrels chased,While the lofty pines, brown arms enlaced,Lisped a dryad-taught melody, sung by the sea.Known in the valleys of Arcady.
For a little space did my Lover sleep,While the gold-mailed sun with me did keepA radiant watch; but when EventideIn saffron-rose wrapped the woodland side,He started up, and he kissed my neck,Then, bidding me rise at his instant beck,We passed where the sovran oak-trees nod,Where never a human foot has trod,Where birches sway in slenderest grace,That never have seen a mortal's face;Where rivulets hasten in sweet surprise,A wonder beneath my wond'ring eyes;A lakelet trembled beneath my glance,The lily-white elfins ceased their dance;A cherry-tree flung confetti down,And framed for my head a loving crown.Soft-toned bellsCalled to each other across the fells.While music played on a reeded fluteStilled the air, and the birds were mute.
"O leaf-loving Zephyr, whence cometh the mirthOf this melody? Owns my mothering EarthA piper who pipes so alluringlyOf beauty that is, of beauty to be?Onward! o'er thousands of blushet-shy daisies,To find this piper of beautiful phrases."
'Mong flocks of goats, and of leaping lambs,The piper sat. Two fierce-horned ramsMade a fleecy cushion whereon he sat,And a sleeping ewe made a creamy matFor his hoofed feet. His music ceased.Green were his eyes, and they seemed well pleasedAs they lit on our forms:
"O! Pan, great Pan!This mortal thy kingdom of beauty would span,And she would learn of the singing seasons'Wonderful featness; of all the reasons.The hill and the wood and the rippling rillThe air with different melodies fill;Where bonnibel April latest was sent,When May filled the world with her wonderment!Who teaches the cuckoo his twin-bell call?The opening notes of a festivalTo jubilate the reign of the summerBeauteous, queenliest, rosy-robed comer.O Pan! I bringA mortal whose soul is afire to sing."
Pan smiled—a smile like a twisted oak—Then beckoned to me, while the forest spoke,"Evoë, great Pan," sang the lark on high,"Evoë, great Pan," from the uttermost sky;I drew near and stood beside his knee:He handed his reeded flute to me,And kept his eyes, of a forest green,On my trembling hands. O! well, I ween,He knew that my amateur hands were weak,For the spirit of me was meek, so meek,And his green eyes glimmered with rising glee.My masterful Lover whispered to me,"Put your lips to the flute with mine,Heedless of self-hood, in song be divine."And placing near mine his golden-sweet mouth,A rondeau he sang of the forest's youth.
Pan spoke at last: "Child! wander and learnThe lilt of the bird and the song of the burn:And when thou hast learned from the burn and the birdThou'lt find me again" (the forest heart stirred)."Hail! child from the plaintful Kingdom of Man."The mountain-tops shouted, "Evoë, great Pan!"The rivers sang deeply, "Evoë, great Pan!"And whisperingly I, "Evoë, great Pan!"
SECOND DAY
The rose-trees show but a tuft of greenWhere a stern, cold pruning-knife has been,But they promise a summer of fragrant wealth:How the small buds come to the light by stealthLike pixies shy; yet a pruning knifeLeads every browny-bare branch to life.Slowly I passed thro' the rustic gate,Where wine-red roses will hold June fête;The wind stole out from the blossoming rowOf the cherry-trees, and he whispered low:
"Are you content to be bound by a wall,E'en tho' it boundeth things beautiful?Tho' cherry and apple bloom over it fall,Always it is, and it hath been, a wall.'Tis true that thro' it there is a wicket,But what can it know of the wild grown thicketThat grows where its pathway may never wander:Out of this garden—the blue land yonder?"
And a cuckoo called; and the echo ran,"Evoë, Evoë, Evoë, great Pan!"
Then my Lover lifted me up in his arms,And swiftly arose. How the grey-roofed farmsReceded into the cup-like earth!And I chanted a canzone of Springtime and Birth,Which called o'er the sea to the firstling swallow,Who flew beside us o'er height and hollow,Till others came from their home of the Sun,And the farm-folk cried, "Dear Summer's begun."Hundreds and thousands followed our flight—ALL ENGLAND WILL HAVE A SWALLOW TO-NIGHT.
By the old elm's portal of ArcadyMy Lover alighted and whispered to me,"O lily of laughter! O sister of flowers!Wander alone in Arcadian bowers,And I will return when the sun goes down,And wing you home to your grey, grey town.I kiss your little white hands and feet:Farewell!" And he rose, on wings so fleetOver the nests in the cradling larch,Over the bow of the rainbow's arch.
Where conifers grow in fine profusion,And birches quiver in sweet confusion,Where hawthorn waits with a danseuse graceTo burst on the scene with her milk-white face,And pirouette near some stately spruce,Scattering around him pearly dews,Where rabbits scamper thro' grasses lush,And a pheasant's screech breaks the noon-day hush,I journeyed on, till the sun beganHis westering course.
"Evoë, great Pan!Never a note of your pipings to-dayHas guided my steps thro' the sylvan way.O! where must I seek in this Paradise?""Evoë, Evoë," a linnet sighs,"Seek where the sisterly marshes are,Where the marigold twinkles, a golden star,Where willow and alder hide the river,Where timid reed-warblers tremble and shiver."The sky showed pink thro' the branches grey,And then I heard, as if far away,A tremulous song, a music of fearsThat was strung together by trills of tears,A quivering star glowed, curtained by leaves,And the hullets called from some distant eaves.
I found Pan crouched by the river's edge,His hoofed feet hid by the rushy sedge,And I listened his plaint.
"O great god Pan,You sing with the broken heart of a man!Your song is of Syrinx, who, æons ago,Escaped from your loving. Alas! that you knowThe music of love, and the music of lack,And you mourn for the hours that cannot come back,—But I would learn of merrier things:The melody murmurs of fluttering wings,The secrets that fill the nightingaled glades,The music that stirs in the leaf-colonnades."
He piped for a minute, then, turning to me,With a wry, queer smile, said: "In ArcadyNo song goes forth to the listening earthThat comes not thro' travail and tears to birth:The river weeps as it leaves the fell,And the note cries out as it mourns the bell;The bird that praises the young, fair dawn,Sings of his loss on the twilit lawn,And those that hymn of the coming springLament for her too, when she taketh wing.The song of songs is of Death and of Love—I sing of Syrinx, my own ... lost ... love."He piped again, and the blue mists frailSwayed in the dusk to the tender wail,And I dreamed—till I felt on my damp, moist hair,My Love's cool hand, and his whisper, "Fair,"Then I felt his arms, and I knew the skies,Whilst over the mountains I saw Dawn arise,And another sweet day its course began,While the hidden stars sang, "Evoë, great Pan!"And the lark in the blue, "Evoë, great Pan!"And wistfully I, "Evoë, great Pan!"
Dear God, your rain and shining sunHave all their lovely duties done:The rain makes grow the golden wheatAnd so provides the bread we eat.
The cow gives us the milk we drinkBecause she loves your sun, I think.Please, grant that other children mayHave milk and bread enough this day.
NIDDERDALE.
SCENE:The Meeting of the Waters, in Bolton Woods, Wharfedale.
QUEEN MABlies sleepily in a mossy hollow, guarded by a quivering frond of last year's bracken. After a little yawn she discontentedly gazes atTHE THRUSHwho is singing continuously, whilst balancing himself on a twig of the leafless hawthorn above her.
QUEEN MAB (almost peevishly for a Queen):
Thou saucy bird, to wake me from my slumber,The spring still tarries, and I would not wakeTo live thro' cloud-spun days, thro' endless nights;To watch the weeping rain, until I tooWould mix my tears with hers. To see the hillsBow their nude forms beneath the lashing hail,To hear the strong trees groan.I will not wake.
THE THRUSH (practising trills between each line and minor arpeggios after each verse):
Queen Mab! Queen Mab!Listen my lay!A windflower leaptIn the hedge to-day.One of thy dimplesLent its mirthTo lessen the gloomOf the snow-tired earth.A white-faced flower'sIn the hedge to-day,Queen Mab! Queen Mab!Listen my lay!
QUEEN MAB (impetuously):
Please, hush thy noisy song a little while.Maybe a windflower shows her shy white face,But I have seen anemones in snow,Hiding their eyes (false messengers of Spring),Justly ashamed of their own perfidy.Therefore, sing softly.
QUEEN MABcurls herself up among her emerald cushions, closes her azure eyes, and sleeps for several days.
THE THRUSH (his voice a degree sweeter and surer):
Queen Mab! Queen Mab!Awake! Awake!A primrose bloomsIn the woodland brake.From thy sleepy lipsHas tumbled a smileWhich lies a-blossomingNear the stile.A primrose bloomsIn the woodland brake!Queen Mab! Queen Mab!Awake! Awake!
A blue tit from a neighbourly silver birch softly mimics the trills after the last line.
QUEEN MAB (half opening her eyes):
O tiresome bird, one primrose does not bringThe warm sweet days for which I yearning wait.Know, I have seen the hillside amber-piedWith primroses, and yet a fierce gale sweptAdown the dale. Primroses are brave,But, tho' they blossom, leave me to my dreams.
Once more she nestles among the jade-green moss and sleeps for a week.
THE THRUSH (louder and clearer):
Queen Mab! Queen Mab!From thy faerie dreamHas sped a laughLike a sunny gleamWhich springs to earthA daffy-down-dillThat merrily floutsAt the purling rill,Thy laugh has spedO'er the hillside grey:Queen Mab! Queen Mab!Listen my lay!
The cuckoo calls wistfully from down-dale, butQUEEN MABdoes not hear him.
QUEEN MAB (stretching her small white arms and yawning dreamily):
Methinks the air feels warmer, and the skySeems bluer, yet mine eyes are loath to ope.I will not wake at once:How the birds sing!I did not think the world held so much song.That note's a blackbird's; that's a finch's call;A wren has whispered secrets to his mate;Two doves are cooing where green curtains hang,Half shyly, lest their love-songs should be heard;Yet, 'tis not spring until the cuckoo cries.
The cuckoo's voice is heard nearer, coming from Bolton Abbey, and a second voice answers,
Cuckoo! Cuckoo!
From Barden Fell.
THE THRUSH (his voice jubilantly strong):
Queen Mab! Queen Mab!Thy hyacinth eyesHave filled the coppiceWith azure sighs.My loved little queenOf windflower feet,Of daffodil-laughterSo primrose-sweet!The rippling woodIs a bluey lake.Queen Mab! Queen Mab!Awake! Awake!
QUEEN MAB (wide awake now, springs from her couch and curtsies to the World, north, south, east, and west, then raises her arms to the Sun):
Gold Sun, I greet thee; do not hide thy faceToo soon behind the wistful little hills.Thou art my lover, faithless, fickle, fair,And leav'st me all too soon; my kingdom's naughtWithout thy splendid presence; stay awhile.
Old World, old wrinkled granddame, thee I greet;Thy loving smile renews thy youth once more.For months I slept upon thy broad brown breast;I thank thee, granddame, for so good a rest.
Ye birds that whistle, hares that limping run,And little soft-eared rabbits, velvet shod,Great wayward mortals, with unseeing eyes,I greet you one and all, for Spring has come.Laugh with the sun, muse with the silver showers;Laugh and make merry, Spring is all too fleet,And soon will dance away on flower-loved feet.
ExitQUEEN MABin search of her court of butterflies. Above the bird-music is heard the insistent cry of the cuckoo, till the fells re-echo with his calling.
BOLTON WOODS, WHARFEDALE.