Four Songs Of Four Seasons

I. Winter in Northumberland     Outside the garden     The wet skies harden;     The gates are barred on     The summer side:     "Shut out the flower-time,     Sunbeam and shower-time;     Make way for our time,"     Wild winds have cried.     Green once and cheery,     The woods, worn weary,     Sigh as the dreary     Weak sun goes home:     A great wind grapples     The wave, and dapples     The dead green floor of the sea with foam.     Through fell and moorland,     And salt-sea foreland,     Our noisy norland     Resounds and rings;     Waste waves thereunder     Are blown in sunder,     And winds make thunder     With cloudwide wings;     Sea-drift makes dimmer     The beacon's glimmer;     Nor sail nor swimmer     Can try the tides;     And snowdrifts thicken     Where, when leaves quicken,     Under the heather the sundew hides.     Green land and red land,     Moorside and headland,     Are white as dead land,     Are all as one;     Nor honied heather,     Nor bells to gather,     Fair with fair weather     And faithful sun:     Fierce frost has eaten     All flowers that sweeten     The fells rain-beaten;     And winds their foes     Have made the snow's bed     Down in the rose-bed;     Deep in the snow's bed bury the rose.     Bury her deeper     Than any sleeper;     Sweet dreams will keep her     All day, all night;     Though sleep benumb her     And time o'ercome her,     She dreams of summer,     And takes delight,     Dreaming and sleeping     In love's good keeping,     While rain is weeping     And no leaves cling;     Winds will come bringing her     Comfort, and singing her     Stories and songs and good news of the spring.     Draw the white curtain     Close, and be certain     She takes no hurt in     Her soft low bed;     She feels no colder,     And grows not older,     Though snows enfold her     From foot to head;     She turns not chilly     Like weed and lily     In marsh or hilly     High watershed,     Or green soft island     In lakes of highland;     She sleeps awhile, and she is not dead.     For all the hours,     Come sun, come showers,     Are friends of flowers,     And fairies all;     When frost entrapped her,     They came and lapped her     In leaves, and wrapped her     With shroud and pall;     In red leaves wound her,     With dead leaves bound her     Dead brows, and round her     A death-knell rang;     Rang the death-bell for her,     Sang, "is it well for her,     Well, is it well with you, rose?" they sang.     O what and where is     The rose now, fairies,     So shrill the air is,     So wild the sky?     Poor last of roses,     Her worst of woes is     The noise she knows is     The winter's cry;     His hunting hollo     Has scared the swallow;     Fain would she follow     And fain would fly:     But wind unsettles     Her poor last petals;     Had she but wings, and she would not die.     Come, as you love her,     Come close and cover     Her white face over,     And forth again     Ere sunset glances     On foam that dances,     Through lowering lances     Of bright white rain;     And make your playtime     Of winter's daytime,     As if the Maytime     Were here to sing;     As if the snowballs     Were soft like blowballs,     Blown in a mist from the stalk in the spring.     Each reed that grows in     Our stream is frozen,     The fields it flows in     Are hard and black;     The water-fairy     Waits wise and wary     Till time shall vary     And thaws come back.     "O sister, water,"     The wind besought her,     "O twin-born daughter     Of spring with me,     Stay with me, play with me,     Take the warm way with me,     Straight for the summer and oversea."     But winds will vary,     And wise and wary     The patient fairy     Of water waits;     All shrunk and wizen,     In iron prison,     Till spring re-risen     Unbar the gates;     Till, as with clamor     Of axe and hammer,     Chained streams that stammer     And struggle in straits     Burst bonds that shiver,     And thaws deliver     The roaring river in stormy spates.     In fierce March weather     White waves break tether,     And whirled together     At either hand,     Like weeds uplifted,     The tree-trunks rifted     In spars are drifted,     Like foam or sand,     Past swamp and sallow     And reed-beds callow,     Through pool and shallow,     To wind and lee,     Till, no more tongue-tied,     Full flood and young tide     Roar down the rapids and storm the sea.     As men's cheeks faded     On shores invaded,     When shorewards waded     The lords of fight;     When churl and craven     Saw hard on haven     The wide-winged raven     At mainmast height;     When monks affrighted     To windward sighted     The birds full-flighted     Of swift sea-kings;     So earth turns paler     When Storm the sailor     Steers in with a roar in the race of his wings.     O strong sea-sailor,     Whose cheek turns paler     For wind or hail or     For fear of thee?     O far sea-farer,     O thunder-bearer,     Thy songs are rarer     Than soft songs be.     O fleet-foot stranger,     O north-sea ranger     Through days of danger     And ways of fear,     Blow thy horn here for us,     Blow the sky clear for us,     Send us the song of the sea to hear.     Roll the strong stream of it     Up, till the scream of it     Wake from a dream of it     Children that sleep,     Seamen that fare for them     Forth, with a prayer for them:     Shall not God care for them     Angels not keep?     Spare not the surges     Thy stormy scourges;     Spare us the dirges     Of wives that weep.     Turn back the waves for us:     Dig no fresh graves for us,     Wind, in the manifold gulfs of the deep.     O stout north-easter,     Sea-king, land-waster,     For all thine haste, or     Thy stormy skill,     Yet hadst thou never,     For all endeavour,     Strength to dissever     Or strength to spill,     Save of his giving     Who gave our living,     Whose hands are weaving     What ours fulfil;     Whose feet tread under     The storms and thunder;     Who made our wonder to work his will.     His years and hours,     His world's blind powers,     His stars and flowers,     His nights and days,     Sea-tide and river,     And waves that shiver,     Praise God, the giver     Of tongues to praise.     Winds in their blowing,     And fruits in growing;     Time in its going,     While time shall be;     In death and living,     With one thanksgiving,     Praise him whose hand is the strength of the sea.     II. Spring in Tuscany     Rose-red lilies that bloom on the banner;     Rose-cheeked gardens that revel in spring;     Rose-mouthed acacias that laugh as they climb,     Like plumes for a queen's hand fashioned to fan her     With wind more soft than a wild dove's wing,     What do they sing in the spring of their time     If this be the rose that the world hears singing,     Soft in the soft night, loud in the day,     Songs for the fireflies to dance as they hear;     If that be the song of the nightingale, springing     Forth in the form of a rose in May,     What do they say of the way of the year?     What of the way of the world gone Maying,     What of the work of the buds in the bowers,     What of the will of the wind on the wall,     Fluttering the wall-flowers, sighing and playing,     Shrinking again as a bird that cowers,     Thinking of hours when the flowers have to fall?     Out of the throats of the loud birds showering,     Out of the folds where the flag-lilies leap,     Out of the mouths of the roses stirred,     Out of the herbs on the walls reflowering,     Out of the heights where the sheer snows sleep,     Out of the deep and the steep, one word.     One from the lips of the lily-flames leaping,     The glad red lilies that burn in our sight,     The great live lilies for standard and crown;     One from the steeps where the pines stand sleeping,     One from the deep land, one from the height,     One from the light and the might of the town.     The lowlands laugh with delight of the highlands,     Whence May winds feed them with balm and breath     From hills that beheld in the years behind     A shape as of one from the blest souls' islands,     Made fair by a soul too fair for death,     With eyes on the light that should smite them blind.     Vallombrosa remotely remembers,     Perchance, what still to us seems so near     That time not darkens it, change not mars,     The foot that she knew when her leaves were September's,     The face lift up to the star-blind seer,     That saw from his prison arisen his stars.     And Pisa broods on her dead, not mourning,     For love of her loveliness given them in fee;     And Prato gleams with the glad monk's gift     Whose hand was there as the hand of morning;     And Siena, set in the sand's red sea,     Lifts loftier her head than the red sand's drift.     And far to the fair south-westward lightens,     Girdled and sandalled and plumed with flowers,     At sunset over the love-lit lands,     The hill-side's crown where the wild hill brightens,     Saint Fina's town of the Beautiful Towers,     Hailing the sun with a hundred hands.     Land of us all that have loved thee dearliest,     Mother of men that were lords of man,     Whose name in the world's heart work a spell     My last song's light, and the star of mine earliest,     As we turn from thee, sweet, who wast ours for a span,     Fare well we may not who say farewell.     III. Summer in Auvergne     THE sundawn fills the land     Full as a feaster's hand     Fills full with bloom of bland     Bright wine his cup;     Flows full to flood that fills     From the arch of air it thrills     Those rust-red iron hills     With morning up.     Dawn, as a panther springs,     With fierce and fire-fledged wings     Leaps on the land that rings     From her bright feet     Through all its lava-black     Cones that cast answer back     And cliffs of footless track     Where thunders meet.     The light speaks wide and loud     From deeps blown clean of cloud     As though day's heart were proud     And heaven's were glad;     The towers brown-striped and grey     Take fire from heaven of day     As though the prayers they pray     Their answers had.     Higher in these high first hours     Wax all the keen church towers,     And higher all hearts of ours     Than the old hills' crown,     Higher than the pillared height     Of that strange cliff-side bright     With basalt towers whose might     Strong time bows down.     And the old fierce ruin there     Of the old wild princes' lair     Whose blood in mine hath share     Gapes gaunt and great     Toward heaven that long ago     Watched all the wan land's woe     Whereon the wind would blow     Of their bleak hate.     Dead are those deeds; but yet     Their memory seems to fret     Lands that might else forget     That old world's brand;     Dead all their sins and days;     Yet in this red clime's rays     Some fiery memory stays     That sears their land.     IV. Autumn In Cornwall     The year lies fallen and faded     On cliffs by clouds invaded,     With tongues of storms upbraided,     With wrath of waves bedinned;     And inland, wild with warning,     As in deaf ears or scorning,     The clarion even and morning     Rings of the south-west wind.     The wild bents wane and wither     In blasts whose breath bows hither     Their grey-grown heads and thither,     Unblest of rain or sun;     The pale fierce heavens are crowded     With shapes like dreams beclouded,     As though the old year enshrouded     Lay, long ere life were done.     Full-charged with oldworld wonders,     From dusk Tintagel thunders     A note that smites and sunders     The hard frore fields of air;     A trumpet stormier-sounded     Than once from lists rebounded     When strong men sense-confounded     Fell thick in tourney there.     From scarce a duskier dwelling     Such notes of wail rose welling     Through the outer darkness, telling     In the awful singer's ears     What souls the darkness covers,     What love-lost souls of lovers,     Whose cry still hangs and hovers     In each man's born that hears.     For there by Hector's brother     And yet some thousand other     He that had grief to mother     Passed pale from Dante's sight;     With one fast linked as fearless,     Perchance, there only tearless;     Iseult and Tristram, peerless     And perfect queen and knight.     A shrill-winged sound comes flying     North, as of wild souls crying     The cry of things undying,     That know what life must be;     Or as the old year's heart, stricken     Too sore for hope to quicken     By thoughts like thorns that thicken,     Broke, breaking with the sea.