MARCH 47 



He thoaght he saw in the pearly East 



The pale March sun arise ; 

 The happy housewife beneath the thatoh, 



With hand above her eyes, 

 Look out to the cawing rooks, that built 



So near to the quiet skies. 



Out of the smoke and noise and sin 



The heart of the poet cried : 

 ' God ! but to be Thy labourer there. 



On the gentle hill's green side — 

 To leave the struggle of want and wealth. 



And the battle of lust and pride ! ' 



He bent his ear, and he heard afar 



The growing of tender things, 

 And his heart broke forth with the travailing earth 



And shook with tremulous wings 

 Of sweet brown birds that had never known 



The dirge of the city's sins. 



And later, when all the earth was green 



As the garden of the Lord — 

 Primroses opening their innocent faces, 



Cowslips scattered abroad, 

 Blue-beUs mimicking summer skies, 



And the song of the thrush out-poured — 



The changeless days were so sad to him 



That the poet's heart beat strong, 

 And he struggled as some poor cag^d lark, 



And he cried, ' How long — how long ? 

 I have missed a spring I can never see. 



And the singing of birds is gone.' 



But when the time of the roses came 



And the nightingale hushed her lay, 

 The poet, still in the dusty town. 



Went quietly on his way — 

 A poorer poet by just one spring, 



And a richer man by one suffering. 



I must begin to tell you about my old garden books, 

 and how I first came to know about them, and then to 



