YOU talk of pale primroses,
Of frail and fragrant posies,
The cowslip and the cuckoo-flower
that scent the spring-time lea.
But give to me the heather,
The honey-scented heather,
The glowing gipsy heather--
That is the flower for me!
You love the garden alleys,
Smooth-shaven lawns and valleys,
The cornfield and the shady lane, and
fisher-sails at sea.
But give to me the moorland,
The noble purple moorland,
The free, far-stretching moorland--
That is the land for me!
A DRIFT of wood and weed-smoke
Floats o'er the garden spaces,
Circling the orchard tree-tops;
They're burning up the traces
Of Winter from the earth,
Now Spring has birth.
Soft showers of snowy petals
Bestrew the bright, lush green;
Blue smokewreaths wheel and thicken
As warm winds stir between,
And living tongues of flame
Put daffodils to shame.
And men shall make such fires,
And warm Spring winds blow free,
When all the great desires
Which rend the heart of me
Shall dwindle into dust,
For Time is just!
THE heather flings her purple robe
Once more upon the hill;
Beneath a shivering aspen-tree
My Love lies cold and still;--
Ah, very deep my Love must sleep,
On that far Flemish plain
If he does not know that the heath bells blow
On the Hampshire hills again
O, other maidens take another man
And just a passing sigh
Will not disturb the lightest dream;
But my poor heart would die
If so very deep my Love should sleep
Beneath his foreign tree,
The he did not stir at the thought of her
Who would love so faithfully
To Ronald Campbell Macfie
YOURS are the moors, the billowy seas,
Tall mountains and blue distances.
Mine is a cottage garden, set
With marigold and mignonette,
And all the wildling things that dare,
Without a gardener's fostering care.
Yet very well-content I rest
In my obscure, sequestered nest:
For from my cottage garden I
Can see your cloud-peaks pierce the sky!
This Earthly Paradise
I DESIRE no heaven of gold harps,
Give me the harps of earth--
Pine trees with red gold on their stems,
The music of the west wind in their branches!
When I am old,
Give me for heaven a little house set on a heath;
The blue hills behind; the blue sea before.
The brick floors scoured crimson, the flagstones like snow;
The brass taps and candlesticks like gold,
And there, in my soft grey gown between the holly-hocks,
Upon a day of days I would welcome an old poet;
And pour him tea, and walk on the heath, and talk the sun down;
And then by the wood fire he should read me the poems
of his passionate youth,
And make new ones praising friendship above love!