The Verse-Book of a Homely Woman

In Somerset

     In Somerset they guide the plough
     From early dawn till twilight now.
     The good red earth smells sweeter yet,
     Behind the plough, in Somerset.
     The celandines round last year's mow
     Blaze out . . . and with his old-time vow
     The South Wind woos the Violet,
     In Somerset.

     Then, every brimming dyke and trough
     Is laughing wide with ripples now,
     And oh, 'tis easy to forget
     That wintry winds can sigh and sough,
     When thrushes chant on every bough
     In Somerset!

Song of a Woodland
     Stream

     Silent was I, and so still,
     As day followed day.
     Imprisoned until
     King Frost worked his will.
     Held fast like a vice,
     In his cold hand of ice,
     For fear kept me silent, and lo
     He had wrapped me around and about
          with a mantle of snow.

     But sudden there spake
     One greater than he.
     Then my heart was awake,
     And my spirit ran free.

     At His bidding my bands fell apart, He
          had burst them asunder.
     I can feel the swift wind rushing by me,
          once more the old wonder
     Of quickening sap stirs my pulses—I
          shout in my gladness,
     Forgetting the sadness,
     For the Voice of the Lord fills the air!

     And forth through the hollow I go, where
          in glad April weather,
     The trees of the forest break out into
          singing together.
     And here the frail windflowers will cluster,
          with young ferns uncurling,
     Where broader and deeper my waters go
          eddying, whirling,
     To meet the sweet Spring on her journey
         —His servant to be,
     Whose word set me free!

     Luggage in Advance

     "The Fairies must have come," I
          said,
     "For through the moist leaves, brown and
          dead,
     The Primroses are pushing up,
     And here's a scarlet Fairy-cup.
     They must have come, because I see
     A single Wood Anemone,
     The flower that everybody knows
     The Fairies use to scent their clothes.
     And hark! The South Wind blowing, fills
     The trumpets of the Daffodils.
     They MUST have come!"

                                 Then loud to me
     Sang from a budding cherry tree,
     A cheerful Thrush . . . "I say! I say!
     The Fairy Folk are on their way.
     Look out! Look out! Beneath your feet,
     Are all their treasures: Sweet! Sweet!
          Sweet!
     They could not carry them, you see,
     Those caskets crammed with witchery,
     So ready for the first Spring dance,
     They sent their Luggage in Advance!"