p. 20

Deep in my gathering garden A gallant thrush has built; And his quaverings on the stillness Like light made song are spilt.

They gleam, they glint, they sparkle, They glitter along the air, Like the song of a sunbeam netted In a tangle of red-gold hair.

And I long, as I laugh and listen, For the angel-hour that shall bring My part, pre-ordained and appointed, In the miracle of Spring.

p. 21XI

p. 21

What doth the blackbird in the boughs Sing all day to his nested spouse? What but the song of his old Mother-Earth, In her mighty humour of lust and mirth? ‘Love and God’s will go wing and wing, And as for death, is there any such thing?’— In the shadow of death, So, at the beck of the wizard Spring The dear bird saith—  So the bird saith!

Caught with us all in the nets of fate, So the sweet wretch sings early and late; And, O my fairest, after all, The heart of the World’s in his innocent call. The will of the World’s with him wing and wing:— ‘Life—life—life! ’Tis the sole great thing This side of death, Heart on heart in the wonder of Spring!’ So the bird saith—  The wise bird saith!

p. 22XII

p. 22

This world, all hoary With song and story, Rolls in a glory Of youth and mirth; Above and under Clothed on with wonder. Sunrise and thunder, And death and birth. His broods befriending With grace unending And gifts transcending A god’s at play, Yet do his meetness And sovran sweetness Hold in the jocund purpose of May.

So take your pleasure, And in full measure Use of your treasure, When birds sing best! p. 23For when heaven’s bluest, And earth feels newest, And love longs truest, And takes not rest:  When winds blow cleanest, And seas roll sheenest, And lawns lie greenest:  Then, night and day, Dear life counts dearest, And God walks nearest To them that praise Him, praising His May.

p. 23

p. 24XIII

p. 24

I talked one midnight with the jolly ghost Of a gray ancestor, Tom Heywood hight; And, ‘Here’s,’ says he, his old heart liquor-lifted— ‘Here’s how we did 

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