. The year's at the spring; an anthology of recent poetry. n He raised his dreamy rays of silver filled the paneAnd streamed across his , for awhile, each gazed at each— Dick and the solemn moon—Till, climbing slowly on her vanished, and was gone. WALTER DE LA MARE 53 rHE • TEARS AT • THE • SPRING Nod OFTLY along the road of evening, In a twilight dim with rose,Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew, Old Nod, the shepherd, goes. His drowsy flock streams on before him, Their fleeces charged with gold,To where the suns last beam leans low On Nod the shepherds fold. The h
. The year's at the spring; an anthology of recent poetry. n He raised his dreamy rays of silver filled the paneAnd streamed across his , for awhile, each gazed at each— Dick and the solemn moon—Till, climbing slowly on her vanished, and was gone. WALTER DE LA MARE 53 rHE • TEARS AT • THE • SPRING Nod OFTLY along the road of evening, In a twilight dim with rose,Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew, Old Nod, the shepherd, goes. His drowsy flock streams on before him, Their fleeces charged with gold,To where the suns last beam leans low On Nod the shepherds fold. The hedge is quick and green with briar,From their sand the conies creep ; And all the birds that fly in heavenFlock singing home to sleep. His lambs outnumber a noons roses. Yet, when nights shadows blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon, Misses not one of all. 54 THE TEARS • AT THE SPRING His are the quiet steeps of dreamland, The waters of no-more-pain,His rams bell rings neath an arch of stars, Rest, rest, and rest again. WALTER DE LA MARE. 55 rHE YEARS AT ? THE • SPRING The Song of the Mad Prince WHO said, Peacock Pie?The old King to the sparrow :Who said, Crops are ripe ?Rust to the harrow :Who said, Where sleeps she now? Where rests she now her head,Bathed in eves loveliness ?Thats what I said. Who said, Ay, mums the word ? Sexton to willow:Who said, Green dusk for dreams. Moss for a pillow ?Who said, All Times delight Hath she for narrow bed ;Lifes troubled bubble broken ? Thats what I said. WALTER DE LA MARE 56 THE ? TEARS • At • THE • SPRING A Dead Harvest IN KENSINGTON GARDENS ALONG the graceless grass of townThey rake the rows of red and brown,-Dead leaves, unlike the rows of hayDelicate, touched with gold and grey,Raked long ago and far away. A narrow silence in the park,Between the lights a narrow street rolls on the north ; and one,Muffled, upon the south doth run ;Amid the mist the work is done. A futile crop ! for it the fireSmoulder
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1900, bookdecade1920, booksubjectenglishpoetry, bookye
