the door.
  All these long years I have loved you, but you cannot call it treason
    If I loved my shack of shingles and my little baby more.

  Now my family have departed—for the good Lord took them early—
    And I turn to thee, O England, as a son that seeks his home.
  Now younger folk may plough and plant the plains I love so dearly,
    Whose acres stretch too wide for feet that can no longer roam.

  If the western skies are bluer and the western snows are whiter,
    And the flowers of the prairie-lands are bright and honey-sweet,
  'Tis the scent of English primrose makes my weary heart beat lighter
    As I count the days that part me from your little cobble street.

  For the last time come the reapers (you can hear the knives ring cheery
    As they pitch the bearded barley in a thousand tents of gold);
  For I see the cliffs of Devon bulking dark beyond the prairie,
    And hear the skylarks calling to a heart that's growing old.

  When the chaff-piles cease their burning and the frost is closing over
    All the barren leagues of stubble that my lonely feet have passed,
  I shall spike the door and journey towards the Channel lights of Dover—
    That England may receive my dreams and bury them at last!

Husbands Over Seas

  Each morning they sit down to their little bites of bread,
    To six warm bowls of porridge and a broken mug or two.
  And each simple soul is happy and each hungry mouth is fed—
    Then why should she be smiling as the weary-hearted do?

  All day the house has echoed to their tiny, treble laughter
    (Six little rose-faced cherubs who trip shouting through the day),
  Till the candle lights the cradle and runs dark along the rafter—
    Then why should she be watching while the long night wastes away?

  She tells them how their daddy has sailed out across the seas,
    And they'll be going after when the May begins to bloom.
  Oh, they clap their hands together as they cluster round her knees—
    Then why should she be weeping as they tumble from the room?

  The May has bloomed and withered and the haws are clinging red,
    The winter winds are talking in the dead ranks of the trees;
  And still she tells of daddy as she tucks each tot in bed—
    God pity all dear women who have husbands over seas!

The Country Goes to Town

  The Country walked to Town, and what did she find there?
  Not a bird nor flower, the trees forsaken were;
  The folk were walking two-and-two in every lane and street—
  You scarce could hear your neighbour for the racket of their feet.

  She could not see the sun shine for dust about the sky;
  She could not hear the winds call, the walls went up so high;
  And even when the night came to brush aside the day,
  She found about the city they were driving it away.

  "Then what have you got here?" the Country asked the Town.
  "There's not a green leaf anywhere, the world is bleak and brown,
  I haven't seen a red cheek nor heard a woman's laughter;
  I'm going back to Bird Land, but won't you follow after?"

  The Town rode to the Country, and what did she find there?
  Just a lot of emptiness, with flowers everywhere.
  The birds were screaming overhead, the sun was on her face,
  The fences were untidy, and the brambles a disgrace.

  "Then what have you got here?" the Town cried in her scorn.
  "I haven't met a four-in-hand nor heard a motor horn.
  It'll cost a pretty penny to restore my riding clothes,
  While my beauty is nigh ruined for the freckles on my nose."

  "What have I got here? Just azure hills and peace,
  Green moss and green fern on roads that never cease.
  And if my heart grows weary of such pleasurings as these,
  There's a baby who comes romping through the nursery of the trees!"

The Trail from Napoli

  From Capo di Sorrento, its poppies and its clover,
    The headlands of Fosilipo, the wharves of Napoli,
  A wide blue trail runs westward to the ocean rim and over
    To where there lies a little town with lights along the sea.

  Here pink and blue the villas crowd beside the yellow sand,
    And sweet and hot, the scented winds puff sultry to the bay,
  The shadow of Vesuvius lies gray across the land—
    And on my heart a loneliness that calls me far away.

  My restless feet are weary of these hills of purple vines,
    These crooked groves of olive trees that scrawl the crooked lanes
  The walnuts shoulder weakly round the tall Italian pines,
    That whisper like the waves of wheat across the yellow plains.

  All day beneath the ruins of Donn' Anna gaunt and black,
    The boats of fisher-folk go by with song and trailing net;
  And dim the cloud of Capri where the red feluccas tack—
    But still the belching funnels smirch the trail I can't forget.

  Virgil's tomb gapes empty where the oranges are bright,
    Above the Roman corridors that goats and beggars tread;
  Soft voices and thin music and laughter all the night—
    I only see a thousand leagues the Channel lights burn red;

  I only hear dear English tongues forever calling me,
    Across the high white English cliffs and flowers of the foam;
  I only breathe sweet lilac bloom a-blowing out to sea—
    A-blowing down the long sea-lanes to lead a lover home!

The Changing Year

  Summer, autumn, winter, spring—
  Back and forth the seasons swing;
    Sun and snows returning ever,
  Like the wild geese on the wing.

  When the clean sap climbs the tree,
  When the strong winds groan and flee—
    Dance the daisies on the hill-tops
  To the thin tune of the bee.

  When the golden noons hang still,
  Crimson flames run down the hill,
    And the musk-rats in the bayou
  Feel the waters growing chill.

  Wood-smoke mists the naked moor;
  Dead leaves shroud the forest floor;
    When the white frosts cross the threshold,
  Summer softly shuts the door.

  Like cold love and empty pain,
  Fades the sun and drifts the rain.
    Tips the world and slips the season,
  Swinging wide the doors again.

Runners of the Rain

  Gaunt and black the naked pines are scrawled across the sky;
    The wild wet winds are clinging where the hard peaks lift and soar;
  They watch our long gray hosts of rain forever marching by,
    While up through all the canyons we send our sullen roar.

  From every sodden meadow we've trodden out the sun;
    We've ground the pale green stalks of grass
             that lifted through the hills;
  Across the yelping torrents a