Ryton Firs

'The Dream'         All round the knoll, on days of quietest air,         Secrets are being told; and if the trees         Speak out - let them make uproar loud as drums -         'Tis secrets still, shouted instead of whisper'd.             There must have been a warning given once:         No tree, on pain of withering and sawfly,         To reach the slimmest of his snaky toes         Into this mounded sward and rumple it;         All trees stand back: taboo is on this soil. -             The trees have always scrupulously obeyed.         The grass, that elsewhere grows as best it may         Under the larches, countable long nesh blades,         Here in clear sky pads the ground thick and close         As wool upon a Southdown wether's back;         And as in Southdown wool, your hand must sink         Up to the wrist before it find the roots.         A bed for summer afternoons, this grass;         But in the Spring, not too softly entangling         For lively feet to dance on, when the green         Flashes with daffodils. From Marcle way,         From Dymock, Kempley, Newent, Bromesberrow,         Redmarley, all the meadowland daffodils seem         Running in golden tides to Ryton Firs,         To make the knot of steep little wooded hills         Their brightest show: O bella et de l'oro!         Now I breathe you again, my woods of Ryton:         Not only golden with your daffodil-fires         Lying in pools on the loose dusky ground         Beneath the larches, tumbling in broad rivers         Down sloping grass under the cherry trees         And birches: but among your branches clinging         A mist of that Ferrara-gold I first         Loved in the easy hours then green with you;         And as I stroll about you now, I have         Accompanying me - like troops of lads and lasses         Chattering and dancing in a shining fortune -         Those mornings when your alleys of long light         And your brown rosin-scented shadows were         Enchanted with the laughter of my boys.     'The Voices in the Dream'         Follow my heart, my dancing feet,         Dance as blithe as my heart can beat.         Only can dancing understand         What a heavenly way we pass         Treading the green and golden land,         Daffodillies and grass.         I had a song, too, on my road,         But mine was in my eyes;         For Malvern Hills were with me all the way,         Singing loveliest visible melodies         Blue as a south-sea bay;         And ruddy as wine of France         Breadths of new-turn'd ploughland under them glowed.         'Twas my heart then must dance         To dwell in my delight;         No need to sing when all in song my sight         Moved over hills so musically made         And with such colour played. -         And only yesterday it was I saw         Veil'd in streamers of grey wavering smoke         My shapely Malvern Hills.         That was the last hail-storm to trouble spring:         He came in gloomy haste,         Pusht in front of the white clouds quietly basking,         In such a hurry he tript against the hills         And stumbling forward spilt over his shoulders         All his black baggage held,         Streaking downpour of hail.         Then fled dismayed, and the sun in golden glee         And the high white clouds laught down his dusky ghost.         For all that's left of winter         Is moisture in the ground.         When I came down the valley last, the sun         Just thawed the grass and made me gentle turf,         But still the frost was bony underneath.         Now moles take burrowing jaunts abroad, and ply         Their shovelling hands in earth         As nimbly as the strokes         Of a swimmer in a long dive under water.         The meadows in the sun are twice as green         For all the scatter of fresh red mounded earth,         The mischief of the moles:         No dullish red, Glostershire earth new-delved         In April! And I think shows fairest where         These rummaging small rogues have been at work.         If you will look the way the sunlight slants         Making the grass one great green gem of light,         Bright earth, crimson and even         Scarlet, everywhere tracks         The rambling underground affairs of moles:         Though 'tis but kestrel-bay         Looking against the sun.         But here's the happiest light can lie on ground,         Grass sloping under trees         Alive with yellow shine of daffodils!         If quicksilver were gold,         And troubled pools of it shaking in the sun         It were not such a fancy of bickering gleam         As Ryton daffodils when the air but stirs.         And all the miles and miles of meadowland         The spring makes golden ways,         Lead here, for here the gold         Grows brightest for our eyes,         And for our hearts lovelier even than love.         So here, each spring, our daffodil festival.         How smooth and quick the year         Spins me the seasons round!         How many days have slid across my mind         Since we had snow pitying the frozen ground!         Then winter sunshine cheered         The bitter skies; the snow,         Reluctantly obeying lofty winds,         Drew off in shining clouds,         Wishing it still might love         With its white mercy the cold earth beneath.         But when the beautiful ground         Lights upward all the air,         Noon thaws the frozen eaves,         And makes the rime on post and paling steam         Silvery blue smoke in the golden day.         And soon from loaded trees in noiseless woods         The snows slip thudding down,         Scattering in their trail         Bright icy sparkles through the glittering air;         And the fir-branches, patiently bent so long,         Sigh as they lift themselves to rights again.         Then warm moist hours steal in,         Such as can draw the year's         First fragrance from the sap of cherry wood         Or from the leaves of budless violets;         And travellers in lanes         Catch the hot tawny smell         Reynard's damp fur left as he sneakt marauding         Across from gap to gap:         And in the larch woods on the highest boughs         The long-eared owls like grey cats sitting still         Peer down to quiz the passengers below.         Light has killed the winter and all dark dreams.         Now winds live all in light,         Light has come down to earth and blossoms here,         And we have golden minds.         From out the long shade of a road high-bankt,         I came on shelving fields;         And from my feet cascading,         Streaming down the land,         Flickering lavish of daffodils flowed and fell;         Like sunlight on a water thrill'd with haste,         Such clear pale quivering flame,         But a flame even more marvellously yellow.         And all the way to Ryton here I walkt         Ankle-deep in light.         It was as if the world had just begun;         And in a mind new-made         Of shadowless delight         My spirit drank my flashing senses in,         And gloried to be made         Of young mortality.         No darker joy than this         Golden amazement now         Shall dare intrude into our dazzling lives:         Stain were it now to know         Mists of sweet warmth and deep delicious colour,         Those lovable accomplices that come         Befriending languid hours.