Henry Charles Beeching (1859–1919)

DEAREST, these household cares remit;

And while the sky is blue to-day,

Here in this sunny shelter sit,

To list the blackbird’s lay.

Is all so rare, romantic boy?

Is love so new and strange, that thou

Must with that wild and shrilling joy

Thrill the yet wintry bough?

Ah, now ’tis softer grown, more sweet,—

‘I come, I come, O love, O my love,’—

And he is fluttering to her feet

In yonder purple grove.

Now hark! all summer swells the note

And dreams of mellow ripeness make

So ripe, so rich his warbling throat

For spouse and children’s sake.

Lover and prophet, see! the flower

Of cherry is hardly white, and figs

Are leafless, and thy nuptial bower

A cage of rattling twigs.

Yet faith is evidence, and hope

Substance, and love sufficient fire;

And Art in these finds ampler scope

Than in fulfill’d desire.

So play thy Pan’s pipe, happy Faun,

Till some May night with moonshine pale,

Thou pin’st, to hear by wood or lawn

Apollo’s nightingale.