All the loud winds were in the garden wood,
All shadows joyfuller than lissom
Doubled in chasing, all exultant
That ever flung fierce mist and eddying
Across heavens deeper than blue polar
Fled over the sceptre-spikes of the chestnuts,
Over the speckle of the wych-elms' green.
She shouted; then stood still, hushed and
To hear her voice so shrill in that gay roar,
And suddenly her eyelashes were dimmed,
Caught in tense tears of spiritual joy;
For there were daffodils which sprightly
Ten thousand ruffling heads throughout the wood,
And every flower of those delighting
Laughed, nodding to her, till she clapped her
Crying 'O daffies, could you only speak!'But there was more.
A jay with skyblue
Set in blunt wing, skimmed screaming on ahead.
She followed him.
A murrey squirrel
Her warily, cocked upon tail-plumed haunch,
Then, skipping the whirligig of last-year leaves,
Whisked himself out of sight and
Leering about the hole of a young beech;
And every time she thought to corner
He scrambled round on little scratchy
To peek at her about the other side.
She lost him, bolting branch to branch, at last — The impudent brat!
But still high
Flight on exuberant flight of opal scud,
Or of dissolving mist, florid as flame.
Scattered in ecstasy over the blue.
And
Followed, first walking, giving her bright
To the cold fervour of the springtime gale,
Whose rush bore the cloud shadow past the
Over the irised wastes of emerald turf.
And still the huge wind volleyed.
Save the gulls,
Goldenly in the sunny blast
Or on blue-shadowed underwing at plunge,
None shared with her who now could not but
The splendour and tumult of th' onrushing spring.
And now she ran no more: the gale gave plumes.
One with the shadows whirled along the grass,
One with the onward smother of veering gulls,
One with the pursuit of cloud after cloud,
Swept she.
Pure speed coursed in immortal limbs;
Nostrils drank as from wells of unknown air;
Ears received the smooth silence of racing floods;
Light as of glassy suns froze in her eyes;
Space was given her and she ruled all space.
Spring, author of twifold loveliness,
Who flittest in the mirth of the wild folk,
Profferest greeting in the faces of flowers,
Blowest in the firmamental glory,
Renewest in the heart of the sad
All faiths, guard thou the innocent
Into whose unknowing hands this
Thou pourest treasure, yet scarce recognised,
That unashamed before man's glib wisdom,
Unabashed beneath the wrath of chance,
She accept in simplicity of
The hidden holiness, the created
To be in her, until death shall take her,
The source and secret of eternal spring.
For Anne
