Chapter IV

Harken, harken, neighbour, harken!
To the sound of woman’s wailing--
A sad woman, quailing, railing,
Like the sob of wind-swept leaves.
Nay, that ban’t no cry of woman,
Nor the moan of any human:
’Tis the murmur of the hill-tops
And “the calling of the cleaves.”

WIND OF THE WEST

I bear the banner of the sun at noon;
I light the million jewelled lamps of June;
I weave, from sky and purple sea below,
The rosy cradle where a baby moon
Rocks in the after-glow.

Awake ye bells, shine out ye stars of Spring;
And let the music of the wild wood ring;
Deck my dear harp anew with golden green--
My ancient forest harp, whereon I sing
Of all this budding scene.

A song of rainbows gleaming on the rain;
Of sap and scent and sunlight come again;
Of the young laughing year’s unmeasured mirth;
Of quickened Nature’s mother-pang, whose pain
Forewent this vernal birth.

THE LOVER AND THE WIND

“Wind of the South with the wild, wet mouth,
Cease from thy wailing and fury of railing;
Whisper to me in my vigils of pain
That soon I shall meet her,
And soon I shall greet her,
And thrill with the passion of kisses again.

“Wind of the South with the wild, wet mouth,
Silence thy raving and hark to my craving;
Echo a hope through my vigils of pain.
I hunger to hold her,
I throb to enfold her
And melt in the fire of her body again.”

“Suffering man, since thy race began
I have been weeping and I have been keeping
A myriad vigils of sorrow and pain.
No more shalt thou meet her,
No more shalt thou greet her,
Or thrill with the passion of kisses again.

“Suffering man, the arc of thy span
To-morrow is bounded and finished and rounded.
Thou shalt forget all thy vigils of pain,
Nor hunger to hold her,
Nor throb to enfold her,
Nor cry for the fire of her body again.”

A SONG

The red’s in the heather, the gold’s on the fern--
Heigho! Heigho!
A nip to the wind and the year at the turn--
Heigho, Johnny!

The aglet and rowan, shine bright on the bough--
Heigho! Heigho!
But seedtime, or harvest be one to him now--
Heigho, Johnny!

All one the wild weather, the wind and the rain--
Heigho! Heigho!
For she that made summer will not come again--
Heigho, Johnny!

Was left in the lurch at a young woman’s whim--
Heigho! Heigho!
Who cared not a cuss for the ruin of him--
Heigho, Johnny!

Oh, little we mind what the seasons may bring--
Heigho! Heigho!
When hearts are a winter without any spring--
Heigho, Johnny!

THE GRAVE OF KEATS