  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.” |
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