. The year's at the spring; an anthology of recent poetry. 42 rWE ? YEARS ? Ar • THE ? SPRING Tewkesbury Road IT is good to be out on the road, and going oneknows not where,Going through meadow and village, one knowsnot whither nor why ;Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen cool rush of the air,Under the flying white clouds, and the broad bluelift of the sky. And to halt at the chattering brook, in the tall green fern at the brinkWhere the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the foxgloves purple and white ;Where the shy-eyed delicate deer come down in a troop to drinkWhen the st
. The year's at the spring; an anthology of recent poetry. 42 rWE ? YEARS ? Ar • THE ? SPRING Tewkesbury Road IT is good to be out on the road, and going oneknows not where,Going through meadow and village, one knowsnot whither nor why ;Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen cool rush of the air,Under the flying white clouds, and the broad bluelift of the sky. And to halt at the chattering brook, in the tall green fern at the brinkWhere the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the foxgloves purple and white ;Where the shy-eyed delicate deer come down in a troop to drinkWhen the stars are mellow and large at the coming on of the night. O, to feel the beat of the rain, and the homely smellof the earth, 43 THE r E ARS AT THE SPRING Is a tune for the blood to jig to, a joy past power of words ;And the blessed green comely meadows are all a-ripple with mirth At the noise of the lambs at play and the dear wild cry of the birds. JOHN MASEFIELD. 44 THE • YEARS • AT • THE • SPRING The West Wind ITS a warm wind, the west wind, full of birdscries ;I never hear the west wind but tears are in my it comes from the west lands, the old brownhills,And Aprils in the west wind, and daffodils. Its a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine,Apple orchards blossom there, and the airs like is cool green grass there, where men may lie at the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest. Will you not come home, brother ? You have been long April, and blossom time, and white is the spray :And bright is the sun, brother, and warm is the you not come home, brother, home to us again ? 45 THE • TEARS • AT - r H E • SPRING The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run ;Its blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and song to a mans soul, brother, fire to a mans brain,To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again. Larks are singing in the west,
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