Sir William Watson.


870   Song

APRIL, April,
Laugh thy girlish laughter;
Then, the moment after,
Weep thy girlish tears!
April, that mine ears
Like a lover greetest,
If I tell thee, sweetest,
All my hopes and fears,
April, April,
Laugh thy golden laughter,
But, the moment after,
Weep thy golden tears!

871   Ode in May

LET me go forth, and share
   The overflowing Sun
   With one wise friend, or one
Better than wise, being fair,
Where the pewit wheels and dips
   On heights of bracken and ling,
And Earth, unto her leaflet tips,
   Tingles with the Spring.

What is so sweet and dear
   As a prosperous morn in May,
   The confident prime of the day,
And the dauntless youth of the year,
When nothing that asks for bliss,
   Asking aright, is denied,
And half of the world a bridegroom is,
   And half of the world a bride?

The Song of Mingling flows,
   Grave, ceremonial, pure,
   As once, from lips that endure,
The cosmic descant rose,
When the temporal lord of life,
   Going his golden way,
Had taken a wondrous maid to wife
   That long had said him nay.

For of old the Sun, our sire,
   Came wooing the mother of men,
   Earth, that was virginal then,
Vestal fire to his fire.
Silent her bosom and coy,
   But the strong god sued and press’d;
And born of their starry nuptial joy
   Are all that drink of her breast.

And the triumph of him that begot,
   And the travail of her that bore,
   Behold they are evermore
As warp and weft in our lot.
We are children of splendour and flame,
   Of shuddering, also, and tears.
Magnificent out of the dust we came,
   And abject from the Spheres.

O bright irresistible lord!
   We are fruit of Earth’s womb, each one,
   And fruit of thy loins, O Sun,
Whence first was the seed outpour’d.
To thee as our Father we bow,
   Forbidden thy Father to see,
Who is older and greater than thou, as thou
   Art greater and older than we.

Thou art but as a word of his speech;
   Thou art but as a wave of his hand;
   Thou art brief as a glitter of sand
’Twixt tide and tide on his beach;
Thou art less than a spark of his fire,
   Or a moment’s mood of his soul:
Thou art lost in the notes on the lips of his choir
   That chant the chant of the Whole.

  By PanEris using Melati.

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