Poems by Christina Georgina Rossetti Part 35

_February._

Come, show me what you bring; For I have said my say, fulfilled my day, And must away.

_March._

[Stopping short on the threshold.]

I blow an arouse Through the world's wide house To quicken the torpid earth: Grappling I fling Each feeble thing, But bring strong life to the birth.

I wrestle and frown, And topple down; I wrench, I rend, I uproot; Yet the violet Is born where I set The sole of my flying foot,

[Hands violets and anemones to February, who retires into the background.]

And in my wake Frail wind-flowers quake, And the catkins promise fruit.

I drive ocean ash.o.r.e With rush and roar, And he cannot say me nay: My harpstrings all Are the forests tall, Making music when I play.

And as others perforce, So I on my course Run and needs must run, With sap on the mount And buds past count And rivers and clouds and sun, With seasons and breath And time and death And all that has yet begun.

[Before March has done speaking, a voice is heard approaching accompanied by a twittering of birds. April comes along singing, and stands outside and out of sight to finish her song.]

_April._

[Outside.]

Pretty little three Sparrows in a tree, Light upon the wing; Though you cannot sing You can chirp of Spring: Chirp of Spring to me, Sparrows, from your tree.

Never mind the showers, Chirp about the flowers While you build a nest: Straws from east and west, Feathers from your breast, Make the snuggest bowers In a world of flowers.

You must dart away From the chosen spray, You intrusive third Extra little bird; Join the unwedded herd!

These have done with play, And must work to-day.

_April._

[Appearing at the open door.]

Good-morrow and good-bye: if others fly, Of all the flying months you're the most flying.

_March._

You're hope and sweetness, April.

_April._

Birth means dying, As wings and wind mean flying; So you and I and all things fly or die; And sometimes I sit sighing to think of dying.

But meanwhile I've a rainbow in my showers, And a lapful of flowers, And these dear nestlings aged three hours; And here's their mother sitting, Their father's merely flitting To find their breakfast somewhere in my bowers.

[As she speaks April shows March her ap.r.o.n full of flowers and nest full of birds. March wanders away into the grounds. April, without entering the cottage, hangs over the hungry nestlings watching them.]

_April._

What beaks you have, you funny things, What voices shrill and weak; Who'd think that anything that sings Could sing through such a beak?

Yet you'll be nightingales one day, And charm the country-side, When I'm away and far away And May is queen and bride.

[May arrives unperceived by April, and gives her a kiss.

April starts and looks round.]

_April._

Ah May, good-morrow May, and so good-bye.

_May._

That's just your way, sweet April, smile and sigh: Your sorrow's half in fun, Begun and done And turned to joy while twenty seconds run.

I've gathered flowers all as I came along, At every step a flower Fed by your last bright shower,--

[She divides an armful of all sorts of flowers with April, who strolls away through the garden.]

_May._

And gathering flowers I listened to the song Of every bird in bower.

The world and I are far too full of bliss To think or plan or toil or care; The sun is waxing strong, The days are waxing long, And all that is, Is fair.

Here are my buds of lily and of rose, And here's my namesake-blossom, may; And from a watery spot See here forget-me-not, With all that blows To-day.

Hark to my linnets from the hedges green, Blackbird and lark and thrush and dove, And every nightingale And cuckoo tells its tale, And all they mean Is love.

[June appears at the further end of the garden, coming slowly towards May, who, seeing her, exclaims]

_May._

Surely you're come too early, sister June.

_June._

Indeed I feel as if I came too soon To round your young May moon And set the world a-gasping at my noon.

Yet come I must. So here are strawberries Sun-flushed and sweet, as many as you please; And here are full-blown roses by the score, More roses, and yet more.

[May, eating strawberries, withdraws among the flower beds.]

_June._

The sun does all my long day's work for me, Raises and ripens everything; I need but sit beneath a leafy tree And watch and sing.

[Seats herself in the shadow of a laburnum.

Or if I'm lulled by note of bird and bee, Or lulled by noontide's silence deep, I need but nestle down beneath my tree And drop asleep.

[June falls asleep; and is not awakened by the voice of July, who behind the scenes is heard half singing, half calling.]

_July._