is rioting this hour, though
I am far away--
Where all the glad flower-faces are old
loves of long ago,
And each in its accustomed place is
blossoming to-day.

The lilac drops her amethysts upon the
mossy wall,
While in her boughs a cheerful thrush
is calling to his mate.
Dear breath of mignonette and stocks!
I love you, know you all.
And, oh, the fragrant spices from the
lad's love by the gate!

Kind wind from the West Country, wet
wind, but scented so,
That straight from my dear garden
you seem but lately come,
Just tell me of the yellow broom, the
guelder rose's snow,
And of the tangled clematis where
myriad insects hum.

Oh, is there any heartsease left, or any
rosemary?
And in their own green solitudes, say,
do the lilies wait?
I knew it! Gentle wind, but once--
speak low and tenderly--
How fares it--tell me truly--with the
lad's love by the gate?

The Thrush

Across the land came a magic word
When the earth was bare and
lonely,
And I sit and sing of the joyous spring,
For 'twas I who heard, I only!
Then dreams came by, of the gladsome
days,
Of many a wayside posy;
For a crocus peeps where the wild rose
sleeps,
And the willow wands are rosy!

Oh! the time to be! When the paths
are green,
When the primrose-gold is lying
'Neath the hazel spray, where the catkins
sway,
And the dear south wind comes sigh-
ing.

My mate and I, we shall build a nest,
So snug and warm and cosy,
When the kingcups gleam on the meadow
stream,
Where the willow wands are rosy!

In Dorset Dear

In Dorset Dear they're making hay
In just the old West Country way.
With fork and rake and old-time gear
They make the hay in Dorset Dear.
From early morn till twilight grey
They toss and turn and shake the hay.
And all the countryside is gay
With roses on the fallen may,
For 'tis the hay-time of the year
In Dorset Dear.

The loaded waggons wend their way
Across the pasture-lands, and stay
Beside the hedge where foxgloves peer;
And rick