THE OPEN ROAD The Meadows in Spring IS a dull sight 'TIS To see the year dying, When winter winds Set the yellow wood sighing: When such a time cometh, I do retire Into an old room Beside a bright fire: Oh, pile a bright fire! And there I sit Reading old things, Of knights and lorn damsels, While the wind sings— I never look out Nor attend to the blast; For all to be seen Is the leaves falling fast: But close at the hearth, Like a cricket, sit I, Reading of summer And chivalry Gallant chivalry! Then with an old friend But gladsome, gladsome! Or to get merry We sing some old rhyme, That made the wood ring again In summer time— Sweet summer time! Then go we to smoking, And sometimes a tear Seeing the two old friends So merrily So merrily! And ere to bed Go we, go we, Down on the ashes We kneel on the knee, Praying together! Thus, then, live I, Till, 'mid all the gloom, By heaven! the bold sun Is with me in the room Shining, shining! Then the clouds part, Swallows soaring between; The spring is alive, And the meadows are green! I jump up, like mad, Break the old pipe in twain, And away to the meadows, Edward FitzGerald. In City Streets YONDER in the heather there's a bed for sleeping, Drink for one athirst, ripe blackberries to eat; Yonder in the sun the merry hares go leaping, And the pool is clear for travel-wearied feet. Sorely throb my feet, a-tramping London highways, (Ah! the springy moss upon a northern moor!) Through the endless streets, the gloomy squares and byways, Homeless in the City, poor among the poor! London streets are gold-ah, give me leaves a-glinting 'Midst grey dykes and hedges in the autumn sun! London water's wine, poured out for all unstinting God! For the little brooks that tumble as they run! Oh, my heart is fain to hear the soft wind blowing, Soughing through the fir-tops up on northern fells! Oh, my eye's an ache to see the brown burns flowing Through the peaty soil and tinkling heather bells. Ada Smith. Good Counsel (From Fleet Street Eclogues) AT T early dawn through London you must go Until you come where long black hedgerows grow, With pink buds pearled, and here and there a tree, And gates and stiles; and watch good country folk; And scent the spicy smoke Of withered weeds that burn where gardens be; And in a ditch perhaps a primrose see. The rooks shall stalk the plough, larks mount the skies, Blackbirds and speckled thrushes sing aloud, Hid in the warm white cloud Mantling the thorn, and far away shall rise The milky low of cows, and farm-yard cries. John Davidson. |