All in the April evening, April airs were abroad; I saw the sheep with their lambs, And thought on the Lamb of God. _Katharine Tynan Hinkson_ THE GARDENER SAGE Here in the garden-bed, Hoeing the celery, Wonders the Lord has made Pass ever before me. I saw the young birds build, And swallows come and go, And summer grow and gild, And winter die in snow. Many a thing I note, And store it in my mind; For all my ragged coat, That scarce will stop the wind. I light my pipe and draw, And, leaning on my spade, I marvel with much awe O'er all the Lord hath made. Now, here's a curious thing: Upon the first of March, The crow goes house-building, In the elms and in the larch. And be it shine or snow, Though many winds carouse, That day the artful crow Begins to build his house. But then--the wonder's big!-- _If Sunday fall that day_ _Nor straw, nor scraw, nor twig, Till Monday will he lay._ His black wings to his side, He'll drone upon his perch, Subdued and holy-eyed, As though he were at church. The crow's a gentleman Not greatly to my mind, He'll steal what seeds he can, And all you hide he'll find. Yet though he's bully and sneak, To small birds bird of prey-- He counts the days of the week, And keeps the Sabbath day. _Katharine Tynan Hinkson_ THE DARK MAN Rose o' the world, she came to my bed And changed the dreams of my heart and head: For joy of mine she left grief of hers And garlanded me with a crown of furze. Rose o' the world, they go out and in, And watch me dream and my mother spin: And they pity the tears on my sleeping face While my soul's away in a fairy place. Rose o' the world, they have words galore, And wide's the swing of my mother's door: But soft they speak of my darkened eyes, But what do they know, who are all so wise? Rose o' the world, the pain you give Is worth all days that a man may live: Worth all shy prayers that the colleens say On the night that darkens the wedding day. Rose o' the world, what man would wed When he might dream of your face instead? Might go to his grave with the blessed pain Of hungering after your face again? Rose o' the world, they may talk their fill, For dreams are good, and my life stands still While their lives' red ashes the gossips stir, But my fiddle knows: and I talk to her. _Nora Hopper_ THE FAIRY FIDDLER 'Tis I go fiddling, fiddling, By weedy ways forlorn: I make the blackbird's music Ere in his breast 'tis born: The sleeping larks I waken Twixt the midnight and the morn.