Well is it seen that every one Laughs at the rain and loves the sun; We too laughed with the wildwood crew, Laughed till the sky once more was blue.
Homeward over the downs we went Soaked to the heart with sweet content; April's anger is swift to fall, April's wonder is worth it all.
(WITH A VOLUME OF STORIES FROM FROISSART)
My Clare,-- These tales were told, you know, In French, five hundred years ago, By old Sir John, whose heart's delight Was lady sweet and valiant knight. A hundred years went by, and then A great lord told the tales again, When bluff King Hal desired his folk To read them in the tongue they spoke. Last, I myself among them took What I loved best and made this book. Great, lesser, less--these writers three Worked for the days they could not see, And certes, in their work they knew Nothing at all, dear child, of you. Yet is this book your own in truth, Because 'tis made for noble youth, And every word that's living there Must die when Clares are no more Clare.
H. Here then, if you insist, my daughter: still, I must confess that I preferred the hill. The warm scent of the pinewood seemed to me The first true breath of summer; did you see The waxen hurt-bells with their promised fruit Already purple at the blossom's root, And thick among the rusty bracken strown Sunburnt anemones long overblown? Summer is come at last!
C. And that is why Mine is a better place than yours to lie. This dark old yew tree casts a fuller shade Than any pine; the stream is simply made For keeping bottles cool; and when we've dined I could just wade a bit while you . . . reclined.
H. Empty the basket then, without more words . . . But I still wish we had not left the birds.
C. Father! you are perverse! Since when, I beg, Have forest birds been tethered by the leg? They're everywhere! What more can you desire? The cuckoo shouts as though he'd never tire, The nuthatch, knowing that of noise you're fond, Keeps chucking stones along a frozen pond, And busy gold-crest, somewhere out of sight, Works at his saw with all his tiny might. I do not count the ring-doves or the rooks, We hear so much about them in the books They're hardly real; but from where I sit I see two chaffinches, a long-tailed tit, A missel-thrush, a yaffle----