A West-Country Love-Song

O, THE sweet dream of the springtide!
O, the quiet laugh of the morn!
'When the brook rippled down to the foot of the town,
And everywhere flowers were born,
And pear trees stood white in the orchard,
And daisies blushed red in the clover,
And through the soft rain the thrush sang in the lane,
Where all the flower-faces drooped over.

O, the faint fragrance of roses,
Crumpled up, pink and white, in your hand,
When all the long day comes the breath of the hay,
And the brook bubbles down to the sand —
To the sand and the glittering tide,
And the marsh and the fields of red clover,
Where the golden- tipped Iris groweth, I wis,
And the curlew's long whistle wails over.

Now with that look in your face,
With the sunlight aslant on your cheek,
Will you understand, while I hold your hand,
And, oh, dearest maid, let me speak ?
For the west wind, with stories of old,
Blows wild across bird's-foot and clover,
As the sea turns to grey at the end of the day,
And all the flower-faces droop over.