Page:Poems and ballads, third series (IA poemsballadsthir00swin).pdf/32

xxxiii.

Thy shrine, our mother, seen for fairer

Than even thy natural face, made fair
With kisses of thine April air
Even now, when spring thy banner-bearer
Took up thy sign to bear;

xxxiv.

Thine annual sign from heaven's own arch

Given of the sun's hand into thine,
To rear and cheer each wildwood shrine
But now laid waste by wild-winged March,
March, mad with wind like wine.

xxxv.

From all thy brightening downs whereon

The windy seaward whin-flower shows
Blossom whose pride strikes pale the rose
Forth is the golden watchword gone
Whereat the world's face glows.