‘Rags and tatters, belts and bayonets, On they swung, the drum a-rolling, Mum and sour. It looked like fighting, And they meant it too, by thunder!’ XXII PASTORAL IT’S the Spring. Earth has conceived, and her bosom, Teeming with summer, is glad. Vistas of change and adventure, Thro’ the green land The grey roads go beckoning and winding, Peopled with wains, and melodious With harness-bells jangling: Jangling and twangling rough rhythms To the slow march of the stately, great horses Whistled and shouted along. White fleets of cloud, Argosies heavy with fruitfulness, Sail the blue peacefully. Green flame the hedgerows. Blackbirds are bugling, and white in wet winds Sway the tall poplars. Pageants of colour and fragrance, Pass the sweet meadows, and viewless Walks the mild spirit of May, Visibly blessing the world. O, the brilliance of blossoming orchards! O, the savour and thrill of the woods, When their leafage is stirred By the flight of the Angel of Rain! Loud lows the steer; in the fallows Rooks are alert; and the brooks Gurgle and tinkle and trill. Thro’ the gloamings, Under the rare, shy stars, Boy and girl wander, Dreaming in darkness and dew. It’s the Spring. A sprightliness feeble and squalid Wakes in the ward, and I sicken, Impotent, winter at heart. XXIII MUSIC DOWN the quiet eve, Thro’ my window with the sunset Pipes to me a distant organ Foolish ditties; And, as when you change Pictures in a magic lantern, Books, beds, bottles, floor, and ceiling Fade and vanish, And I’m well once more . . . August flares adust and torrid, But my heart is full of April Sap and sweetness. In the quiet eve I am loitering, longing, dreaming . . . Dreaming, and a distant organ Pipes me ditties. I can see the shop, I can smell the sprinkled pavement, Where she serves—her chestnut chignon Thrills my senses! O, the sight and scent, Wistful eve and perfumed pavement! In the distance pipes an organ . . . The sensation Comes to me anew, And my spirit for a moment Thro’ the music breathes the blessèd Airs of London. XXIV SUICIDE STARING corpselike at the ceiling, See his harsh, unrazored features, Ghastly brown against the pillow, And his throat—so strangely bandaged! Lack of work and lack of victuals, A debauch of smuggled whisky, And his children in the workhouse Made the world so black a riddle That he plunged for a solution; And, although his knife was edgeless, He was sinking fast towards one, When they came, and found, and saved him. Stupid now with shame and sorrow, In the night I hear him sobbing. But sometimes he talks a little. He has told me all his troubles.