Homeward over the downs we went Soaked to the heart with sweet content; April's anger is swift to fall, April's wonder is worth it all.

{168}.

'To Clare'

(WITH A VOLUME OF STORIES FROM FROISSART).

My Clare,-- These tales were told, you know, In French, five hundred years ago, By old Sir John, whose heart's delight Was lady sweet and valiant knight.

A hundred years went by, and then A great lord told the tales again, When bluff King Hal desired his folk To read them in the tongue they spoke.

Last, I myself among them took What I loved best and made this book.

Great, lesser, less--these writers three Worked for the days they could not see, And certes, in their work they knew Nothing at all, dear child, of you.

Yet is this book your own in truth, Because 'tis made for n.o.ble youth, And every word that's living there Must die when Clares are no more Clare.

{169}.

'The Return of Summer: An Eclogue'

Scene: ASHDOWN FOREST IN MAY

Persons: H.--A POET; C.--HIS DAUGHTER

H. Here then, if you insist, my daughter: still, I must confess that I preferred the hill.

The warm scent of the pinewood seemed to me The first true breath of summer; did you see The waxen hurt-bells with their promised fruit Already purple at the blossom's root, And thick among the rusty bracken strown Sunburnt anemones long overblown?

Summer is come at last!

C. And that is why Mine is a better place than yours to lie.

This dark old yew tree casts a fuller shade Than any pine; the stream is simply made For keeping bottles cool; and when we've dined I could just wade a bit while you . . . reclined.

H. Empty the basket then, without more words . . .

But I still wish we had not left the birds.

{170}.

C. Father! you are perverse! Since when, I beg, Have forest birds been tethered by the leg?

They're everywhere! What more can you desire?

The cuckoo shouts as though he'd never tire, The nuthatch, knowing that of noise you're fond, Keeps chucking stones along a frozen pond, And busy gold-crest, somewhere out of sight, Works at his saw with all his tiny might.

I do not count the ring-doves or the rooks, We hear so much about them in the books They're hardly real; but from where I sit I see two chaffinches, a long-tailed t.i.t, A missel-thrush, a yaffle----

H. That will do: I may have overlooked a bird or two.

Where are the biscuits? Are you getting cramp Down by the water there--it must be damp?

C. I'm only watching till your bottle's cool: It lies so snug beneath this gla.s.sy pool, Like a sunk battleship; and overhead The water-boatmen get their daily bread By rowing all day long, and far below Two little eels go winding, winding slow . . .

Oh! there's a shark!

H. A what?

C. A miller's thumb.

Don't move, I'll tempt him with a tiny crumb.

H. Be quick about it, please, and don't forget I am at least as dry as he is wet.

C. Oh, very well then, here's your drink.

{171}.

H. That's good!

I feel much better now.

C. I thought you would ('exit quietly').

H. How beautiful the world is when it breathes The news of summer!--when the bronzy sheathes Still hang about the beech-leaf, and the oaks Are wearing still their dainty ta.s.selled cloaks, While on the hillside every hawthorn pale Has taken now her balmy bridal veil, And, down below, the drowsy murmuring stream Lulls the warm noonday in an endless dream.

O little brook, far more thou art to me Than all the pageantry of field and tree: 'Es singen wohl die Nixen'--ah! 'tis truth-- 'Tief unten ihren Reih'n'--but only Youth Can hear them joyfully, as once I lay And heard them singing of the world's highway, Of wandering ended, and the maiden found, And golden bread by magic mill-wheel ground.

Lost is the magic now, the wheel is still, And long ago the maiden left the mill: Yet once a year, one day, when summer dawns, The old, old murmur haunts the river-lawns, The fairies wake, the fairy song is sung, And for an hour the wanderer's feet are young ('he dozes').

C. (returning) Father! I called you twice.

H. I did not know: Where have you been?

C. Oh, down the stream.

{172}.

H. Just so: Well, I went 'up'.

C. I wish you'd been with me.

H. When East is West, my daughter, that may be.

{173}.

'Dream-Market'

A MASQUE PRESENTED AT WILTON HOUSE,.

JULY 28, 1909.

'Scene'. A LAWN IN THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE'S ARCADIA

'Enter FLORA, Lady of Summer, with her maidens, PHYLLIS and AMARYLLIS. She takes her seat upon a bank, playing with a basket of freshly gathered flowers, one of which she presently holds up in her hand.'

FLORA. Ah! how I love a rose! But come, my girls, Here's for your task: to-day you, Amaryllis, Shall take the white, and, Phyllis, you the red.

Hold out your kirtles for them. White, red, white, Red, red, and white again. . . .

Wonder you not How the same sun can breed such different beauties?