Norman Rowland Gale

Have you seen the golfers airy
Prancing forth to their vagary,
Just as frisky in their gaiters
As a flock of Grecian Satyrs,
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Last night some yellow letters fell
From out a scrip I found by chance;
Among them was the silent ghost,
The spirit of my first romance:
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Bartholomew is very sweet,
From sandy hair to rosy feet.
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I'm greedy by nature, and often in vain
Have lingered too long o'er the succulent hare,
Accepting the jelly, ignoring the pain,
Intent on receiving far more than my share.
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HERE in the country’s heart
Where the grass is green,
Life is the same sweet life
As it e’er hath been.
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O might I leave this grassy place
For spreading foam about my feet!
The splendid spray upon my face,
The flying brine itself were sweet
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On Helen’s heart the day were night!
But I may not adventure there:
Here breast is guarded by a right,
And she is true as fair.
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You voluble,
Velvety
Vehement fellows
That play on your
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In summer, when the grass is thick, if Mother has the time,
She shows me with her pencil how a poet makes a rhyme,
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If you passed her in your city
You would call her badly dressed,
But the faded homespun covers
Such a heart in such a breast!
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Excuse me, Sweetheart, if I smear,
With wisdom learnt from ancient teachers,
Now winter time once more is here,
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NATURE and he went ever hand in hand
Across the hills and down the lonely lane;
They captured starry shells upon the strand
And lay enchanted by the musing main.
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If ever there was a Golden Game
To brace the nerves, to cure repining,
To put the Dumps to flight and shame,
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The brook told the dove
And the dove told me
That Cicely's bathing at the pool
With other virgins three.
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GOD with His million cares
Went to the left or right,
Leaving our world; and the day
Grew night.
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Shy maids have haunts of still delight,
The lover glades he never tells;
And one is mine where mass the bright
And odoured chimes of foxglove-bells.
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All work is over at the farm
And men and maids are ripe for glee;
Love slips among them sly and warm
Or calls them to the chestnut-tree.
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When red-nosed Winter takes the road,
An icicle his walking-stick,
When frost is on the woodman's load,
And snow is falling fast and thick,
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WAIT but a little while—
The bird will bring
A heart in tune for melodies
Unto the spring,
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IT hardly seems that he is dead,
So strange it is that we are here
Beneath this great blue shell of sky
With apple-bloom and pear:
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