Get Your Premium Membership

The Voices in the Dream (Ryton Firs)

Follow my heart, my dancing feet,
Dance as blithe as my heart can beat.
Only can dancing understand What a heavenly way we pass Treading the green and golden land, Daffodillies and grass.
I had a song, too, on my road, But mine was in my eyes; For Malvern Hills were with me all the way, Singing loveliest visible melodies Blue as a south-sea bay; And ruddy as wine of France Breadths of new-turn'd ploughland under them glowed.
'Twas my heart then must dance To dwell in my delight; No need to sing when all in song my sight Moved over hills so musically made And with such colour played.
— And only yesterday it was I saw Veil'd in streamers of grey wavering smoke My shapely Malvern Hills.
That was the last hail-storm to trouble spring: He came in gloomy haste, Pusht in front of the white clouds quietly basking, In such a hurry he tript against the hills And stumbling forward spilt over his shoulders All his black baggage held, Streaking downpour of hail.
Then fled dismayed, and the sun in golden glee And the high white clouds laught down his dusky ghost.
For all that's left of winter Is moisture in the ground.
When I came down the valley last, the sun Just thawed the grass and made me gentle turf, But still the frost was bony underneath.
Now moles take burrowing jaunts abroad, and ply Their shovelling hands in earth As nimbly as the strokes Of a swimmer in a long dive under water.
The meadows in the sun are twice as green For all the scatter of fresh red mounded earth, The mischief of the moles: No dullish red, Glostershire earth new-delved In April! And I think shows fairest where These rummaging small rogues have been at work.
If you will look the way the sunlight slants Making the grass one great green gem of light, Bright earth, crimson and even Scarlet, everywhere tracks The rambling underground affairs of moles: Though 'tis but kestrel-bay Looking against the sun.
But here's the happiest light can lie on ground, Grass sloping under trees Alive with yellow shine of daffodils! If quicksilver were gold, And troubled pools of it shaking in the sun It were not such a fancy of bickering gleam As Ryton daffodils when the air but stirs.
And all the miles and miles of meadowland The spring makes golden ways, Lead here, for here the gold Grows brightest for our eyes, And for our hearts lovelier even than love.
So here, each spring, our daffodil festival.
How smooth and quick the year Spins me the seasons round! How many days have slid across my mind Since we had snow pitying the frozen ground! Then winter sunshine cheered The bitter skies; the snow, Reluctantly obeying lofty winds, Drew off in shining clouds, Wishing it still might love With its white mercy the cold earth beneath.
But when the beautiful ground Lights upward all the air, Noon thaws the frozen eaves, And makes the rime on post and paling steam Silvery blue smoke in the golden day.
And soon from loaded trees in noiseless woods The snows slip thudding down, Scattering in their trail Bright icy sparkles through the glittering air; And the fir-branches, patiently bent so long, Sigh as they lift themselves to rights again.
Then warm moist hours steal in, Such as can draw the year's First fragrance from the sap of cherry wood Or from the leaves of budless violets; And travellers in lanes Catch the hot tawny smell Reynard's damp fur left as he sneakt marauding Across from gap to gap: And in the larch woods on the highest boughs The long-eared owls like grey cats sitting still Peer down to quiz the passengers below.
Light has killed the winter and all dark dreams.
Now winds live all in light, Light has come down to earth and blossoms here, And we have golden minds.
From out the long shade of a road high-bankt, I came on shelving fields; And from my feet cascading, Streaming down the land, Flickering lavish of daffodils flowed and fell; Like sunlight on a water thrill'd with haste, Such clear pale quivering flame, But a flame even more marvellously yellow.
And all the way to Ryton here I walkt Ankle-deep in light.
It was as if the world had just begun; And in a mind new-made Of shadowless delight My spirit drank my flashing senses in, And gloried to be made Of young mortality.
No darker joy than this Golden amazement now Shall dare intrude into our dazzling lives: Stain were it now to know Mists of sweet warmth and deep delicious colour, Those lovable accomplices that come Befriending languid hours.

Poem by Lascelles Abercrombie
Biography | Poems | Best Poems | Short Poems | Quotes | Email Poem - The Voices in the Dream (Ryton Firs)Email Poem | Create an image from this poem

Poems are below...

More Poems by Lascelles Abercrombie

Comments, Analysis, and Meaning on The Voices in the Dream (Ryton Firs)

Provide your analysis, explanation, meaning, interpretation, and comments on the poem The Voices in the Dream (Ryton Firs) here.

Commenting turned off, sorry.