His song of dawn outsoars the joyful bird, Swift on the weary road his footfall comes; The dusty air that by his stride is stirred Beats with a buoyant march of fairy drums. "Awake, O Earth! thine ancient slumber break; To the new day, O slumbrous Earth, awake!" Yet long ago that merry march began, His feet are older than the path they tread; His music is the morning-song of man, His stride the stride of all the valiant dead; His youngest hopes are memories, and his eyes Deep with the old, old dream that never dies. {165} _The Wanderer_ To Youth there comes a whisper out of the west: "O loiterer, hasten where there waits for thee A life to build, a love therein to nest, And a man's work, serving the age to be." Peace, peace awhile! Before his tireless feet Hill beyond hill the road in sunlight goes; He breathes the breath of morning, clear and sweet, And his eyes love the high eternal snows. {166} _The Adventurers_ Over the downs in sunlight clear Forth we went in the spring of the year: Plunder of April's gold we sought, Little of April's anger thought. Caught in a copse without defence Low we crouched to the rain-squall dense: Sure, if misery man can vex, There it beat on our bended necks. Yet when again we wander on Suddenly all that gloom is gone: Under and over through the wood, Life is astir, and life is good. Violets purple, violets white, Delicate windflowers dancing light, Primrose, mercury, moscatel, Shimmer in diamonds round the dell. Squirrel is climbing swift and lithe, Chiff-chaff whetting his airy scythe, Woodpecker whirrs his rattling rap, Ringdove flies with a sudden clap. {167} Rook is summoning rook to build, Dunnock his beak with moss has filled, Robin is bowing in coat-tails brown, Tomtit chattering upside down. Well is it seen that every one Laughs at the rain and loves the sun; We too laughed with the wildwood crew, Laughed till the sky once more was blue. 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 noble youth, And every word that's living there Must die when Clares are no more Clare. {169}