The certain course that to his strength belongs Drives him with gathering purpose and control Until across Vendean flats he sees Ocean, the eldest of his enemies. Then wheels he for him, glorying in his goal, And gives him challenge, bellowing battle-songs.
The stranger warmth of the young sun obeying, Look! little heads of green begin to grow, And hidden flowers have dared their tops to show Where late such droughty dusts were rudely playing. It’s not the month, but all the world’s a-maying! Come then with me, I’ll take you, for I know Where the first hedgethorns and white windflowers blow: We two alone, that goes without the saying.
The month has treacherous clouds and moves in fears. This April shames the month itself with smiles: In whose new eyes I know no heaven of tears, But still serene desire and between whiles, So great a look that even April’s grace Makes only marvel at her only face.
This is the laughing-eyed amongst them all: My lady’s month. A season of young things. She rules the light with harmony, and brings The year’s first green upon the beeches tall. How often, where long creepers wind and fall Through the deep woods in noonday wanderings, I’ve heard the month, when she to echo sings, I’ve heard the month make merry madrigal.
How often, bosomed in the breathing strong Of mosses and young flowerets, have I lain And watched the clouds, and caught the sheltered song-- Which it were more than life to hear again-- Of those small birds that pipe it all day long Not far from Marly by the memoried Seine.
Rise up, and do begin the day’s adorning; The Summer dark is but the dawn of day. The last of sunset grows into the morning, The morning calls you from the dark away. The holy mist, the white mist of the morning, Was wreathing upward on my lonely way. My way was waiting for your own adorning, That should complete the broad adornéd day.
Rise up, and do begin the day’s adorning; The little eastern clouds are dapple-gray, There will be wind among the leaves to-day; It is the very promise of the morning. _Lux tua via mea._ Your light’s my way: Oh, do rise up and make it perfect day.
The Kings come riding back from the Crusade, The purple Kings and all their mounted men; They fill the street with clamorous cavalcade; The Kings have broken down the Saracen. Singing a great song of the eastern wars, In crimson ships across the sea they came, With crimson sails and diamonded dark oars, That made the Mediterranean flash with flame.