Under a hawthorn, ruby-gemmed in May, A bank of marjorams lie at their ease; Here, lad's-love sigh their fragrant hearts away, Whilst rippling lieds of water never cease.
Beside the cherry-tree the balsams flower, The rue and mint bloom out a life-time meek; A pleasant place it is at sunrise hour, When sportful finches wing in hide-and-seek.
And where the aged, moss-grown sundial lies, The peacock pert unfolds his wheel-rim tail, Showing a hundred jewelled Argus eyes: With harsh, shrill cry he bids the day "All hail."
More is he fitted for the fountained sward Than for my herbary of butterflies; No! I proclaim the lovelier throstle, Lord, The only one my simples recognise.
Rushes by the river Rear their heads of brown; In the wind they quiver With a warning frown. "Do you want them, Fairest? At thy feet they lie; They were guarding, Rarest,-- Sentinels!--They die."
Wild things are not willing To be captive ta'en: "Cutting's almost killing," Is their sad refrain. "Rushes in their beauty Greenly-proud should stand: Guarding is their duty-- River from the land."
To-day there is no one as happy as I, Who am free of the hills, of the dales, of the sky, As I ride o'er the moors while the lapwings cry.
I ride thro' the whin, watch the rabbits run, Then slowly I turn to bask in the sun-- Then gallop away o'er the crest, like fun.
And Satan, you fiend, with your knowing ways And tricks, that you dream of for days and days, And mem'ries of maddening hours of the chase;
Do you feel the liberty of the wind, That wakes the fern-land with kisses kind, And seeks with caresses our lips to find?
To-day, for us both to be out is joy, Tho' I am a girl with the soul of a boy, And you are a horse, whom the spurs annoy.
To just be alive is a blessing rare, In a world of beauty, endlessly fair; For Satan and I, we have no care.
Strong, powerful Sweetheart-Wind, In tireless love-storm surging; Great, bold, tempestuous Wind, Ever thy passion urging.
Hold me close in thine arms, O! strengthening ecstasy: Wild, sweet, capturing arms-- Love! I am yearning for thee.
Eyes, hair, bosom caress, My rowan-red lips now kiss; Life-giving, wilful caress, O! marvellous moorland bliss.
Great, strong lover o' mine, I long for thy grand embrace; Fierce, brave lover o' mine, I yield to thee my heart's grace.