April Voices

The good earth calls with voices strangely
sweet 5
Come to your mother earth — th’ old English
earth,
The ruddy mother of a mighty race —
Dear ruddy earth, with early wheat
Pale green on plough ridge and with kindly
grass
New sprung in fields that take no care !
Come to the friends who love your
eager face ;
Come share our rustic peace, our frugal
mirth ;
Come, and restrict for once your happy Muse
To the four hundred words we yokels use
For life and love and death —why all the
lore
Of ancient Egypt hardly needed more!
Will London miss her poet? ‘There, alas!
No man is missed. Come make our
roof your own,
And leave the birches dreaming in your
square
Of forests far beyond the maze of stone.

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