[. . . Now it came to pass that four
of these Sweet English Singers were gathered together in
one place. And they took counsel together as to how and in what
manner they should beguile
a Vacant Half Hour. “For,” they agreed, “it is
written, or at any rate we believe, that the
feeblest
chirrup, that the song too faint even to stir the Back Hairs of
God is better than the shortest
silence.” And I dreamed that the names of these singers were
written in a book in the order of
their singing, and that it was commanded me to set them down. And
they stood in a fair,
sweet line and they sang.]
Soprano : MISS KATHERINE TYNAN.
Spring i’ the wood!
And the aconites frail
Cold all a’ tremble
In this wild gale.
The snowdrop, the daffodil, hyacinth flower,
Posy the earth in a colourful shower.
Spring i’ the wood!
Love i’ the wood!
And my love all pale,
White limbs a’ flutter
In this wild galle.
“Do you care?” “Would you dare?” and “I
know
a sweet bower. ”
So I whispered my love in that riotous hour.
Love i’ the wood!
Contralto: MRS. E. NESBIT.
Now leaps the sun on his own spears and dies!
Across the passionate sky his red blood flies;
The roses crush their mouths upon the breeze
That woos them, and Dusk threads among the trees.
So leapt my love upon her virgin drouth
So stained and passionate scarlet her young mouth;
She crushed upon me all her swooning grace
In silence-and her dark hair hid her face.
Tenor: MR. WILFRID GIBSON.
Ah, no, Beloved, the air is chill,
We dare not climb th’ accustomed hill,
We dare not gaze o’ th’ familiar sea,
And Autumn’s skeleton minstrelsy
Jigs i’ the bone of the leafless tree.
No, ah Beloved, thy mouth is cold;
We dare not kiss as we kissed of old;
I dare not gaze in the well-known eyes;
My shivering spirit might surprise
An answering shiver, that barren, dies. . . .
Bass :MR. LAURENCE HOUSMAN.
Howl, wind! Thud, hail!
Drive, rain, upon a naked world !
Weave thy pale pall, snow.
(Ah, God, then, is it always so?
Must the year die, must the year go?)
The storm clouds shudder, the old winds blow,
And life is oblivion-hushed.
Break, heart! Beat, hands!
Drive, tears, upon my with’ring breast?
She lies more pale than any snow.
(God, God, then, is it ever so?
And must I stay, and must she go?)
Despair-tossed, spent, I wait below
And mourn my restless rest.
KATHERINE MANSFIELD |
