Cuckoo Day. THE daybreak glimmers And shivers and shimmers, Shivers and shimmers in purple and gold Till the flash of their bits and their harness-chains Shoots on to the Cowfold monast'ry spire, Then Aurora, the sun's Rosy handmaiden, runs With a basket of fruit blossoms poised on her head, Green ones and pink ones and white ones and red, And, with both hands uplifted, outscatters them wide Through gardens and orchards on every side, Such abundance, Redundance, On every side, Of blossoms for apples and damsons and cherries, For currants and quinces, pears, plums and straw berries, That the labourers call to each other to see What a wonderful fruit year 'tis likely to be. And, lo, it is April, the month of sweets, When clouds become whiter than Winter's snow, And swallows skim into the village streets To seek the old homes of their long ago; And folks declare, At Heathfield Fair A hook-nosed hag From her fairing bag Lets the cuckoo fly out, and away! Away! and away! and away! "Cuckoo! cuckoo!" Away and away! "Cuckoo !" The beeches come green Where their blushes have been; And the chestnut leaflets begin to rise And sprinkle the turf with their brown bud-scales; While the speedwell opens its shy, blue eyes, To peep at the sun from the garden pales, "Four years?-four years are nearly never!" "Cuckoo! cuckoo!"-"Stop, cuckoo, stop, or we shall all be maids for ever!" "Cuckoo! cuckoo!" “O, bother you, If we must all be maids for ever!" Wood pigeons coo Grow, peas, do-do!" But the wryneck ceases her "peet-pee-peet!" "Cuckoo! cuckoo!" And they answer him back with a lusty and clear "Cuckoo! cuckoo !" Then haste to the hedgerows to see Who secretly runs and searches, A thread, Black, yellow, or brown, or red, Blown there from his future sweetheart's head. And, once again, the fairies throw aside their ermine hoods; And, as we love, we see them in the meadows and the woods. And the little children sing, In a ring o' roses ring, "March winds and April showers "Cuckoo! cuckoo!" An Autumn Allegory. COME, our old mate, come back to us again; And in the holt the chestnut-burs are brownCome, our old mate, both old and young complain! We tapped a cask of cider yesterday; To-morrow we shall thrash the walnut tree. O, we will feast you, if you come this way, Of luscious harvest plums and William pears. We never had such apples here before, And plumper, sweeter filberts never grew; And on the grape-vine by the garden door There still is left a goodly bunch or two Come, our old mate, for you is all our store! For you the medlars soften, one by one, And frequently on fresh, clean straw are laid; For you the bottled gooseberries are done, And currant wine and damson cheese are made : We will not think it true That country sweets are no more sweet to you! O, Never Say that Pan is Dead. O, NEVER say that Pan is dead And every nymph and satyr fled, Though, grown too wise, men seek no more The presences of country lore, Nor go on pilgrimage to find The magic pipes Pan leaves behind! I saw a cherry tree in flower And from the midst of that fair tree Ah, never mortal maid was seen And on the leafy sylvan way I know a place where satyrs play; And even little children bring Sweet posies to that fairy ring. |