THIS is the weather the cuckoo likes, And so do I; When showers betumble the chestnut spikes, And nestlings fly: And the little brown nightingale bills his best, And they sit outside at “The Travellers’ Rest,” And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest, And citizens dream of the south and west, And so do I. II This is the weather the shepherd shuns, And so do I; When beeches drip in browns and duns, And thresh, and ply; And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe, And meadow rivulets overflow, And drops on gate-bars hang in a row, And rooks in families homeward go, And so do I. THE MAID OF KEINTON MANDEVILLE (A TRIBUTE TO SIR H. BISHOP) I HEAR that maiden still Of Keinton Mandeville Singing, in flights that played As wind-wafts through us all, Till they made our mood a thrall To their aery rise and fall, “Should he upbraid.” Rose-necked, in sky-gray gown, From a stage in Stower Town Did she sing, and singing smile As she blent that dexterous voice With the ditty of her choice, And banished our annoys Thereawhile. One with such song had power To wing the heaviest hour Of him who housed with her. Who did I never knew When her spoused estate ondrew, And her warble flung its woo In his ear. Ah, she’s a beldame now, Time-trenched on cheek and brow, Whom I once heard as a maid From Keinton Mandeville Of matchless scope and skill Sing, with smile and swell and trill, “Should he upbraid!” 1915 or 1916. SUMMER SCHEMES WHEN friendly summer calls again, Calls again Her little fifers to these hills, We’ll go—we two—to that arched fane Of leafage where they prime their bills Before they start to flood the plain With quavers, minims, shakes, and trills. “—We’ll go,” I sing; but who shall say What may not chance before that day! And we shall see the waters spring, Waters spring From chinks the scrubby copses crown; And we shall trace their oncreeping To where the cascade tumbles down And sends the bobbing growths aswing, And ferns not quite but almost drown. “—We shall,” I say; but who may sing Of what another moon will bring! EPEISODIA I PAST the hills that peep Where the leaze is smiling, On and on beguiling Crisply-cropping sheep; Under boughs of brushwood Linking tree and tree In a shade of lushwood, There caressed we! II Hemmed by city walls That outshut the sunlight, In a foggy dun light, Where the footstep falls With a pit-pat wearisome In its cadency On the flagstones drearisome There pressed we! III