THE hawthorn lane was full of flower; Across the hedge, the apple-trees Sent down with every gust of breeze A light, loose-petalled blossom-shower. The wide green edges of the lane Were filmed with kedlock-flowers, and white Archangels tall, the bees' delight, Sprang lustier for the morning's rain. The scent of May was heavy-sweet; The noon poured down upon the land. The nightingales on either hand Called, and were silent in the heat. The herds, the flowers, the nightingales All drowsed; and I upon the edge Of grass beneath the flowering hedge Lay dreaming of its shoots and trails. When, starting at the sound of feet, I saw the Italian vagrants pass; The monkey, man, and peasant-lass, Who figure on our village street -- At race-time in the spring; nor song, Caper, nor hurdy-gurdy tune Seemed left in them this blazing noon As wearily they trudged along. They did not pause to look upon The apple-blossom and the may; They saw the road that reached away Thro' leagues of dust, aye on and on. They did not even stop to hear The rare sweet call of the nightingale; The hurdy-gurdy's squeak and yell Was too accustomed in their ear. I watched them plod their stolid way Straight on; till suddenly I heard The monkey mimic the singing-bird, And snatch a trail of the flowering may. And down the road I saw him still Catching and clutching the blossom white, Waving his long, black arms in delight, Until they passed over the brow of the hill. |