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.”