The Eighth Sin/Ballade of March
When the fitful sun has beckoned the crocus
Up from the womb of the chill wet mould,
And the sounds and scents of spring provoke us
From cloisters grey and damp and old,
When the fleeces of heaven are all unrolled
And windy March gives promise of June
And the world is blue and green and gold—
Then hey for a bicycling afternoon!
When the quickening blood brings into focus
All in our souls that is gay and bold
Away from the dons and their hocus-pocus
Ride where the Thames runs clean and cold
Under Swinford Bridge or by Cumnor wold—
On with the magical seven-league shoon!
Colour and fragrance manifold
Are ours on a bicycling afternoon.
And, if the rain does fall and soak us
(What did Chaucer mean when he told
Of the drought of March! Was he trying to joke us?)
A wetting can be at an inn consoled.
Before our wheels there lies unrolled
A land of meadows and streams—too soon
We will lose it: Come, would you live blindfold?
Come for a bicycling afternoon!
From our pipes, our papers, our bookish swoon—
And, lest our learning should rise and choke us
We went for a bicycling afternoon!