The Traveller

When March was master of furrow and fold,
And the skies kept cloudy festival
And the daffodil pods were tipped with gold
And a passion was in the plover’s call,
A spare old man went hobbling by
With a broken pipe and a tapping stick,
And he mumbled--“Blossom before I die,
Be quick, you little brown buds, be quick.

“I ’ve weathered the world for a count of years--
Good old years of shining fire--
And death and the devil bring no fears,
And I ’ve fed the flame of my last desire;
I ’m ready to go, but I ’d pass the gate
On the edge of the world with an old heart sick
If I missed the blossoms. I may not wait--
The gate is open--be quick, be quick.”