Nor till Death shall have stripped our lives as bare As the forest in wintry weather,

Will the world find the nest in the covert where

We dwelt, loved, and sang together.

A MARCH MINSTREL

Hail! once again, that sweet strong note!

Loud on my loftiest larch,

Thou quaverest with thy mottled throat,
Brave minstrel of bleak March!

Hearing thee flute, who pines or grieves
For vernal smiles and showers?
Thy voice is greener than the leaves,
And fresher than the flowers.

Scorning to wait for tuneful May
When every throat can sing,
Thou floutest Winter with thy lay,
And art thyself the Spring.

While daffodils, half mournful still,
Muffle their golden bells,

Thy silvery peal o'er landscape chill
Surges, and sinks, and swells.

Across the unsheltered pasture floats

The young lamb's shivering bleat: There is no trembling in thy notes, For all the snow and sleet.

Let the bullace bide till frosts have ceased,
The blackthorn loiter long;
Undaunted by the blustering east,
Thou burgeonest into song.

Yet who can wonder thou dost dare
Confront what others flee?
Thy carol cuts the keen March air
Keener than it cuts Thee.

The selfish cuckoo tarrieth till
April repays his boast.

Thou, thou art lavish of thy trill,
Now when we need it most.

The nightingale, while buds are coy,
Delays to chant its grief.

Brave throstle! thou dost pipe for joy,
With never a bough in leaf.

Even fond turtle-doves forbear
To coo till woods are warm :

Thou hast the heart to love and pair
Ere the cherry blossoms swarm.

The skylark, fluttering to be heard
In realms beyond his birth,

Soars vainly heavenward. Thou, wise bird!
Art satisfied with earth.

Thy home is not upon the ground,

Thy hope not in the sky:

Near to thy nest thy notes resound,
Neither too low nor high.

Blow what wind will, thou dost rejoice
To carol, and build, and woo.
Throstle! to me impart thy voice;
Impart thy wisdom too!

PRIMROSES

I

Latest, earliest of the year,
Primroses that still were here,
Snugly nestling round the boles
Of the cut down chestnut poles,

When December's tottering tread

Rustled 'mong the deep leaves dead,
And with confident young faces

Peeped from out the sheltered places
When pale January lay

In its cradle day by day,

Dead or living, hard to say;

Now that mid-March blows and blusters,

Out you steal in tufts and clusters,

Making leafless lane and wood

Vernal with your hardihood.

Other lovely things are rare,

You are prodigal as fair.

First you come by ones and ones,
Lastly in battalions,
Skirmish along hedge and bank,
Turn old Winter's wavering flank,
Round his flying footsteps hover,
Seize on hollow, ridge and cover,
Leave nor slope nor hill unharried,
Till, his snowy trenches carried,
O'er his sepulchre you laugh,
Winter's joyous epitaph.

II

This, too, be your glory great,

Primroses, you do not wait,

As the other flowers do,

For the Spring to smile on you,
But with coming are content,
Asking no encouragement.
Ere the hardy crocus cleaves
Sunny borders 'neath the eaves,
Ere the thrush his song rehearse
Sweeter than all poet's verse,
Ere the early bleating lambs
Cling like shadows to their dams,
Ere the blackthorn breaks to white,
Snowy-hooded anchorite;

Out from every hedge you look,
You are bright by every brook,
Wearing for your sole defence
Fearlessness of innocence.
While the daffodils still waver,
Ere the jonquil gets its savour,
While the linnets yet but pair,
You are fledged, and everywhere.

Nought can daunt you, nought distress,

Neither cold nor sunlessness.

You, when Lent sleet flies apace,

Look the tempest in the face;

As descend the flakes more slow,
From your eyelids shake the snow,
And when all the clouds have flown,