 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
119
VIATOR
Is this the February air
That breathes in fragrance on my brow?
So soft, methinks, 'twould never dare
To nip the bloom or whirl the snow;—
And yet no hint of treachery
Lurks in the clear enlivened sky.
That breathes in fragrance on my brow?
So soft, methinks, 'twould never dare
To nip the bloom or whirl the snow;—
And yet no hint of treachery
Lurks in the clear enlivened sky.
The speckled arum-spike begins
His crumpled glistening cap to thrust:
Blithe on the road the dry leaf spins,
The yew is packed with yellow dust;
Beneath the elm small things are seen
That star the dyke with lively green.
His crumpled glistening cap to thrust:
Blithe on the road the dry leaf spins,
The yew is packed with yellow dust;
Beneath the elm small things are seen
That star the dyke with lively green.
Where smoothly dips the sheltered lea
The merry crested plovers run,
Or lost in dreamy reverie
Hoist their long wings to feel the sun;
Or wheel with melancholy cry,
And lessen in the western sky.
The merry crested plovers run,
Or lost in dreamy reverie
Hoist their long wings to feel the sun;
Or wheel with melancholy cry,
And lessen in the western sky.
The eyes that track them draw the soul
To fly, to follow where they go;
They came from where the torrents roll,
Where those vext lands were dim with snow;
They little reck what ways they tread;
Or by what waters they are fed.
To fly, to follow where they go;
120
Where those vext lands were dim with snow;
They little reck what ways they tread;
Or by what waters they are fed.
Huge toppling clouds are piled in air;
A bluff in billowy vapour rolled,
Faint summits perilously fair,
With thunderous base of sullen gold.
I thread in thought the cloudland through,
To win the upper purer blue;
A bluff in billowy vapour rolled,
Faint summits perilously fair,
With thunderous base of sullen gold.
I thread in thought the cloudland through,
To win the upper purer blue;
The chestnuts by the timbered grange
Are standing as they stood before,
Yet somewhat delicate and strange
Informs them: they are old no more;
A hundred times I passed this way:—
What spirit makes them new to-day?
Are standing as they stood before,
Yet somewhat delicate and strange
Informs them: they are old no more;
A hundred times I passed this way:—
What spirit makes them new to-day?
The soul puts on her summer dress,
And, tired awhile of scheme and gain,
Clothes with delight the wilderness,
And dreams that she is pure again:
Then, idly wondering, tries her wing,
Only content to soar and sing.
And, tired awhile of scheme and gain,
Clothes with delight the wilderness,
And dreams that she is pure again:
Then, idly wondering, tries her wing,
Only content to soar and sing.
Out of the woods sweet spirits call—
Here be at rest, with all forgiven:
Thy burden galls thee; let it fall,
And take the flowery road to heaven;
Thou lingerest in the stony way,
Custom, not honour bids thee stay.
Here be at rest, with all forgiven:
Thy burden galls thee; let it fall,
And take the flowery road to heaven;
Thou lingerest in the stony way,
Custom, not honour bids thee stay.
121
Nay, nay, I answer, I have heard,
As in some half-remembered dream,
A note that shames the jocund bird,
A truer voice than wind or stream;
Ye know not and ye may not know,
Yet aid me, cheer me ere I go.
As in some half-remembered dream,
A note that shames the jocund bird,
A truer voice than wind or stream;
Ye know not and ye may not know,
Yet aid me, cheer me ere I go.
The birds sail home: the mouldering tower
With measured chime tolls out the day;
Close with the irrevocable hour;
Make thy brief thanks; thy vespers pay:
To-morrow's seed waits to be sown.
To-day God gave thee for thine own.
With measured chime tolls out the day;
Close with the irrevocable hour;
Make thy brief thanks; thy vespers pay:
To-morrow's seed waits to be sown.
To-day God gave thee for thine own.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |