THE GOLDEN PLOVER
A song for you, golden plover:
Not the song of a lover
Who dreams of a blush,
Nor the song for a thrush
Whose music is tremulous, sweet;
But a song for a heart that dares tempest or hush,
A measure for wings that are fleet.
Fleet . . . fleet . . . fleet . . . !
Who but the winds can trace you, chase you?
Flutter of lightning, you southward sweep,
To the wonder of thunder you overleap.
Faster . . . faster . . . faster . . . !
Who but the winds can face you, pace you?
Fearless of foaming and booming and crash;
Scorner of breeze, adorner of zephr;
Come . . . gone . . in a flash!
Speedier . . . speedier . . . speedier . . . !
Who but the winds can overtake you?
Who but a gale can check and shake you?
Who but a hurricane can make you
Drop to the earth whose worth shall wake you
From your frenzied trance of flight?
Like a volley of shot your flocks alight,
Scattering gracefully over the sedge,
Palled in spume from the cauldron’s edge.
Surer than furrow’s is breaker’s pledge:
Whom the welter of sea and sky invite,
On the lands of man show sudden fright.
A song for you, golden plover:
Not the song for a lover
Who dreams of a flush
Of delicate plumes that gleam as they hover
Over a flower they make less fair;
But a song of wings whose miraculous rush
Is measure atune with the air.
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