Poem by Dorothy Una Ratcliffe

Song of the Primroses

Listen to the infant breeze,
Clutching at the nippled trees,
    Where our yellow flowers are blowing,
    Where the rivulet is flowing.

Over all the blue-cupped sky
Silver brooding clouds swim by;
    See! The firstling swallow flying,
    Later, owlets will be crying.

Come and mark the painter sun
Daub the earth with golden fun;
    Hear the larches' fingers snapping,
    As if goblin hands were clapping.

Smell the rain-sweet, thymy earth,
Feel the wonder of rebirth!
    Far away a cuckoo's calling,
    Notes that sound like twin bells falling.

Then a clearer voice replies
To his echo ere it dies,
    And the blackbirds' voices mingle
    With th' Eistedfodd in the dingle.

Gold-green poplars slowly wave
O'er the Winter's mossy grave;
    Ferns are pointing curly fingers
    Where the dead year's bracken lingers.

We have seen a hedgehog hide
Prickle-less to greet his bride;
    Watched the baby otter shiver
    Ere he plunged into the river.

We are critics of the bees,
Watch how they despoil and seize
    From each cowslip saffron bounty;
    Uncaught robbers of the county!

All the keenings of the bat,
Whimperings of the water-rat;
    All the hopes of sister flowers
    Come to us by gossip showers.

Tortoise-shelled butterflies,
On their dew-pearl'd wingful sighs,
    Bear the news of elfin squabbles;
    "Wounded Oberon still hobbles."

We are darlings of the Spring,
All her secrets she doth bring,
    Runes of magic she discloses
    To her confidant-Primroses.

                ENVOI

We shall feel her joy-winged sigh,
When she hears the Summer's cry:
    We shall droop and die of grieving,
    When our lovely Spring is leaving.

1. The Road
2. Saadi and the Rose
3. Song of the Mists
4. The Moors in Summer
5. Satan and I

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