INVITING THE INFLUENCE OF A YOUNG LADY UPON THE OPENING YEAR.
You wear the morning like your dress And all with mastery crowned; When as you walk your loveliness. Goes shining all around. Upon your secret, smiling way Such new contents were found, The Dancing Loves made holiday On that delightful ground.
Then summon April forth, and send Commandment through the flowers; About our woods your grace extend A queen of careless hours. For oh, not Vera veiled in vain, Nor Dian's sacred Ring, With all her royal nymphs in train Could so lead on the Spring.
I said to Heart, "How goes it?" Heart replied: "Right as a Ribstone Pippin!" But it lied.
Sally is gone that was so kindly; Sally is gone from Hannaker Hill, And the briar grows ever since then so blindly; And ever since then the clapper is still... And the sweeps have fallen from Hannaker Mill.
Hannaker Hill is in desolation; Ruin a-top and a field unploughed. And Spirits that call on a falling nation, Spirits that loved her calling aloud, Spirits abroad in a windy cloud.
Spirits that call and no one answers-- Hannaker's down and England's done. Wind and thistle for pipe and dancers, And never a ploughman under the sun: Never a ploughman, never a one.
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda? Do you remember an Inn? And the tedding and the spreading Of the straw for a bedding, And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees, And the wine that tasted of the tar? And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers (Under the dark of the vine verandah)? Do you remember an Inn, Miranda, Do you remember an Inn? And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers Who hadn't got a penny, And who weren't paying any, And the hammer at the doors and the Din? And the Hip! Hop! Hap! Of the clap Of the hands to the twirl and the swirl Of the girl gone chancing, Glancing, Dancing, Backing and advancing, Snapping of the clapper to the spin Out and in-- And the Ting, Tong, Tang of the guitar! Do you remember an Inn, Miranda? Do you remember an Inn?
Never more; Miranda, Never more. Only the high peaks hoar: And Aragon a torrent at the door. No sound In the walls of the Halls where falls The tread Of the feet of the dead to the ground. No sound: Only the boom Of the far Waterfall like Doom.