The Call of Spring

The Call of Spring.
Florence Wilkinson
57.1

I hearkened at dawn to the call of the Spring,
The voice of a spirit,
And my soul leapt up like a wildwood thing,
Like a hawk from its tirret.

She is calling me out to the open wold,
To the scurrying hollow,
To the violets dim in the dead leaf gold
Where the white wings follow.

All the blue April pools are adance and alive
With thrips and with midges,
Dumb shimmering mites that equally thrive
As the merle on the ridges.

The merle sits atilt on the rotten-wood rail,
Blithe heart for his booting,
Toling me out to the gypsy trail
With his mocado fluting.

The merryman Wind I will have for my mate,
On the moorland reeling,
And a journeying shadow when day is late,
With a cloud for my shieling.

The stars overhead will lamp me to bed,
A pilgrim unladen;
The wayfaring Tree my guild brother will be
And the Lark my glee maiden.