Meanwhile the dragon, seeing him clean gone, Followed him not, but crying horribly, Caught up within her jaws a block of stone And ground it into powder, then turned she, With cries that folk could hear far out at sea, And reached the treasure set apart of old, To brood above the hidden heaps of gold.
Yet was she seen again on many a day By some half-waking mariner, or herd, Playing amid the ripples of the bay, Or on the hills making all things afeard, Or in the wood, that did that castle gird, But never any man again durst go
To seek her woman's form, and end her woe.
First you come by ones, and ones, Lastly in battalions;
Skirmish along hedge and bank, Turn old Winter's wavering flank; Round his flying footsteps hover, Seize on hollow, ridge, and cover, Leave nor slope nor hill unharried, Till, his snowy trenches carried, O'er his sepulchre you laugh, Winter's joyous epitaph.
This, too, be your glory great, Primroses, you do not wait, As the other flowers do, For the Spring to smile on you, But with coming are content, Asking no encouragement. Ere the hardy crocus cleaves Sunny borders 'neath the eaves; Ere the thrush his song rehearse, Sweeter than all poets' verse; Ere the early bleating lambs Cling like shadows to their dams; Ere the blackthorn breaks to white, Snowy-hooded anchorite;
Out from every hedge you look, You are bright by every brook, Wearing for your sole defence Fearlessness of innocence. While the daffodils still waver, Ere the jonquil gets its savour; While the linnets yet but pair,
You are fledged, and everywhere. Nought can daunt you, nought distress, Neither cold nor sunlessness. You, when Lent sleet flies apace, Look the tempest in the face; As descend the flakes more slow, From your eyelids shake the snow, And, when all the clouds have flown, Meet the sun's smile with your own. Nothing ever makes you less Gracious to ungraciousness. March may bluster up and down, Pettish April sulk and frown; Closer to their skirts you cling, Coaxing Winter to be Spring.
In its cradle day by day,
Dead or living, hard to say;
Now that mid-March blows and blusters,
Out you steal in tufts and clusters,
Making leafless lane and wood
Vernal with your hardihood.
Other lovely things are rare,
You are prodigal as fair.
Then, when your sweet task is done, And the wild-flowers, one by one, Here, there, everywhere do blow, Primroses, you haste to go,
Satisfied with what you bring, Fading morning-stars of Spring. You have brightened doubtful days, You have sweetened long delays, Fooling our enchanted reason To miscalculate the season.
But when doubt and fear are fled, When the kine leave wintry shed, And 'mong grasses green and tall Find their fodder, make their stall; When the wintering swallow flies Homeward back from southern skies, To the dear old cottage thatch Where it loves to build and hatch, That its young may understand, Nor forget, this English land; When the cuckoo, mocking rover, Laughs that April loves are over; When the hawthorn, all ablow, Mimics the defeated snow; Then you give one last look round, Stir the sleepers underground, Call the campion to awake,
Tell the speedwell courage take, Bid the eyebright have no fear, Whisper in the bluebell's ear Time has come for it to flood With its blue waves all the wood, Mind the stitchwort of its pledge To replace you in the hedge, Bid the ladysmocks good-bye, Close your bonnie lids and die; And, without one look of blame, Go as gently as you came.
And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night, Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid, Follows with dancing and fills with delight The Mænad and the Bassarid; And soft as lips that laugh and hide, The laughing leaves of the trees divide, And screen from seeing and leave in sight The god pursuing, the maiden hid.
The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes; The wild vine slipping down leaves bare
Her bright breast shortening into sighs; The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves, But the berried ivy catches and cleaves To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies.
THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE Here, where the world is quiet; Here, where all trouble seems Dead winds' and spent waves' riot In doubtful dreams of dreams;
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