 | The Poetical Works of John Payne |  |
FALSE SPRING.
THE linnet tapped at the window-pane,
The hawthorn shook down its silver rain,
The flower-scents called me again and again:
‘Come, for the Spring is here!’
O linnet! the day is golden for thee;
O hawthorn! thy snow is pleasant to see;
O flowers! will the flower-scents waken for me
The dreams that are dead and sere?
The hawthorn shook down its silver rain,
The flower-scents called me again and again:
‘Come, for the Spring is here!’
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O hawthorn! thy snow is pleasant to see;
O flowers! will the flower-scents waken for me
The dreams that are dead and sere?
‘Come out, come out, O poet!’ they said;
‘The violets wait in their cool green bed,
The windflowers beckon with silver head,
The pale blue crocuses linger
For thee, like a flame of the winter's end,
The hyacinth-clusters tinkle and bend,
The cowslips thrill with the scents they send
To comfort the weary singer.
‘The violets wait in their cool green bed,
The windflowers beckon with silver head,
The pale blue crocuses linger
For thee, like a flame of the winter's end,
The hyacinth-clusters tinkle and bend,
The cowslips thrill with the scents they send
To comfort the weary singer.
‘The earth is singing her songs of green;
The cuckoo pipes in the heart of the treen;
There is no sadness in any, I ween,
Under the new Spring glamour.
Come out and live with the flowers again!
Thou hast fretted thy soul o'erlong in vain
With the olden strife and the olden pain
And the weary worldly clamour.’
The cuckoo pipes in the heart of the treen;
There is no sadness in any, I ween,
Under the new Spring glamour.
Come out and live with the flowers again!
Thou hast fretted thy soul o'erlong in vain
With the olden strife and the olden pain
And the weary worldly clamour.’
‘O breezes and birds!’ I said, ‘I fear
Ye should bring me again the past-time drear
And the vanished shapes that I held so dear,
With their tender tearful grace.
I fear ye should raise in the hawthorn-bowers
The sad sweet wraiths of the bygone hours
And sadden my sight in the primrose-flowers
With a dear dead maiden's face.’
Ye should bring me again the past-time drear
And the vanished shapes that I held so dear,
With their tender tearful grace.
I fear ye should raise in the hawthorn-bowers
The sad sweet wraiths of the bygone hours
And sadden my sight in the primrose-flowers
With a dear dead maiden's face.’
‘O poet,’ they said, ‘the Spring is glad;
The earth has buried the grief it had;
The fields have forgotten the winter sad,
The woods are laughing with blossom:
There cometh no wraith of the bygone days
To moan in the wreaths of the woodbine maze;
But a golden glory of sunbeams plays
Over the young land's bosom!’
The earth has buried the grief it had;
The fields have forgotten the winter sad,
The woods are laughing with blossom:
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To moan in the wreaths of the woodbine maze;
But a golden glory of sunbeams plays
Over the young land's bosom!’
‘O birds! I fear ye will sing me anew
The golden songs that I taught to you,
When life was a kiss of the summer dew,
Under the blossomed flowers.
O breezes! I fear lest the voice of the dead
Should ring in your wafts, with the words she said
And the silver rain of the tears she shed,
In the old sweet happy hours.’
The golden songs that I taught to you,
When life was a kiss of the summer dew,
Under the blossomed flowers.
O breezes! I fear lest the voice of the dead
Should ring in your wafts, with the words she said
And the silver rain of the tears she shed,
In the old sweet happy hours.’
‘O poet!’ they said, ‘we will comfort thee,
No more shall our voices deceitful be;
We will sing to thee songs of the things we see
In the happy future's gold!
We will weave for thee delicate dreams and deep;
We will vex thee no longer nor make thee weep;
We will leave unstirred in their dreamless sleep
The happy days of old!’
No more shall our voices deceitful be;
We will sing to thee songs of the things we see
In the happy future's gold!
We will weave for thee delicate dreams and deep;
We will vex thee no longer nor make thee weep;
We will leave unstirred in their dreamless sleep
The happy days of old!’
There was no nay; so out I went,
Under the apples blossom-sprent;
And the Springtime kissed me, as I came,
With blue-bell breath and crocus-flame;
The birds did wreathe the air with singing
And on the breeze there came a ringing,
A noise of silver bells and gold,
From out the woodlands, as of old.
Under the apples blossom-sprent;
And the Springtime kissed me, as I came,
With blue-bell breath and crocus-flame;
The birds did wreathe the air with singing
And on the breeze there came a ringing,
A noise of silver bells and gold,
From out the woodlands, as of old.
My feet did turn toward the wood;
And as I went, the hawthorns strewed
White snow and rosy in my way
And throstles piped from every spray.
There seemed no dole in aught, nor guile:
The happy earth was all a-smile
With cowslip-gold and windflower-white;
Spring held all things with its delight.
And as I went, the hawthorns strewed
White snow and rosy in my way
And throstles piped from every spray.
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The happy earth was all a-smile
With cowslip-gold and windflower-white;
Spring held all things with its delight.
So to the forest's edge I came
And saw the brooklet, like a flame
Of liquid silver, flow between
Lush column-work of arching green;
Fair flowers laughed archly in the moss;
The daffodils their heads did toss
For joyance and the gladsome bees
Hummed in the blue anemones.
And saw the brooklet, like a flame
Of liquid silver, flow between
Lush column-work of arching green;
Fair flowers laughed archly in the moss;
The daffodils their heads did toss
For joyance and the gladsome bees
Hummed in the blue anemones.
There seemed no sadness in the air
Nor any thought of things that were
For me of old and are no more;
Nor any of the sad old lore
That in my heart the years laid deep,
To lie and sleep a troubled sleep,
Did seem to stir in that sweet shade;
And so I entered, undismayed.
Nor any thought of things that were
For me of old and are no more;
Nor any of the sad old lore
That in my heart the years laid deep,
To lie and sleep a troubled sleep,
Did seem to stir in that sweet shade;
And so I entered, undismayed.
O birds, 'twas not well done of you!
O flowers and breeze, right well ye know
The weary glamour that the Spring
Had laid for me on everything!
'Twas but to bring me back again
The memory of the olden pain,
Ye lured me out, with song of birds,
With violet-breath and fair false words!
O flowers and breeze, right well ye know
The weary glamour that the Spring
Had laid for me on everything!
'Twas but to bring me back again
The memory of the olden pain,
Ye lured me out, with song of birds,
With violet-breath and fair false words!
For lo! my feet had hardly past
The woven band of flowerage, cast
Betwixt the meadows and the trees,
When, in the bird-songs and the breeze,
Another strain was taken up
And out of every blue-bell's cup,
The mocking voices sang again
The olden songs of love and pain.
The woven band of flowerage, cast
Betwixt the meadows and the trees,
When, in the bird-songs and the breeze,
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And out of every blue-bell's cup,
The mocking voices sang again
The olden songs of love and pain.
The flowers did mimic the old grace;
The wan white windflowers wore her face
And in the stream I heard her words;
Her voice came rippling from the birds.
Dead love, I saw thy form anew
Bend down among the violets blue,
And like a mist, the memory
Of all the past rose up in me.
The wan white windflowers wore her face
And in the stream I heard her words;
Her voice came rippling from the birds.
Dead love, I saw thy form anew
Bend down among the violets blue,
And like a mist, the memory
Of all the past rose up in me.
| The Poetical Works of John Payne | |