Now we are old, hey, isn’t it fine, Out in the wind and the rain? Now we have nothing, why snivel and whine? What would it bring us again? When I was young I took you like wine, Held you and kissed you and thought you divine-- Happy-Go-Lucky, the habit’s still mine, Out in the wind and the rain. Oh, my old Heart, what a life we have led, Out in the wind and the rain! How we have drunken and how we have fed! Nothing to lose or to gain. Cover the fire now; get we to bed. Long is the journey and far has it led. Come, let us sleep, lass, sleep like the dead, Out in the wind and the rain. _The Bellman_ _Madison Cawein_ PATH FLOWER A red-cap sang in Bishop’s wood, A lark o’er Golder’s lane, As I the April pathway trod Bound west for Willesden. At foot each tiny blade grew big And taller stood to hear, And every leaf on every twig Was like a little ear. As I too paused, and both ways tried To catch the rippling rain,-- So still, a hare kept at my side His tussock of disdain,-- Behind me close I heard a step, A soft pit-pat surprise, And looking round my eyes fell deep Into sweet other eyes; The eyes like wells, where sun lies too, So clear and trustful brown, Without a bubble warning you That here’s a place to drown. “How many miles?” Her broken shoes Had told of more than one. She answered like a dreaming Muse, “I came from Islington.” “So long a tramp?” Two gentle nods, Then seemed to lift a wing, And words fell soft as willow-buds, “I came to find the Spring.” A timid voice, yet not afraid In ways so sweet to roam, As it with honey bees had played And could no more go home. Her home! I saw the human lair, I heard the hucksters bawl, I stifled with the thickened air Of bickering mart and stall. Without a tuppence for a ride, Her feet had set her free. Her rags, that decency defied, Seemed new with liberty. But she was frail. Who would might note That trail of hungering That for an hour she had forgot In wonder of the Spring. So shriven by her joy she glowed It seemed a sin to chat. “A tea-shop snuggled off the road;” Why did I think of that? Oh, frail, so frail! I could have wept,-- But she was passing on, And I but muddled “You’ll accept A penny for a bun?” Then up her little throat a spray Of rose climbed for it must; A wilding lost till safe it lay Hid by her curls of rust; And I saw modesties at fence With pride that bore no name; So old it was she knew not whence It sudden woke and came; But that which shone of all most clear Was startled, sadder thought That I should give her back the fear Of life she had forgot.