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| A RED-CAP sang in Bishop’s wood, | |
| A lark o’er Golder’s lane, | |
| As I the April pathway trod | |
| Bound west for Willesden. | |
| |
| At foot each tiny blade grew big | 5 |
| And taller stood to hear, | |
| And every leaf on every twig | |
| Was like a little ear. | |
| |
| As I too paused, and both ways tried | |
| To catch the rippling rain,— | 10 |
| So still, a hare kept at my side | |
| His tussock of disdain,— | |
| |
| Behind me close I heard a step, | |
| A soft pit-pat surprise, | |
| And looking round my eyes fell deep | 15 |
| Into sweet other eyes; | |
| |
| The eyes like wells, where sun lies too, | |
| So clear and trustful brown, | |
| Without a bubble warning you | |
| That here’s a place to drown. | 20 |
| |
| “How many miles?” Her broken shoes | |
| Had told of more than one. | |
| She answered like a dreaming Muse, | |
| “I came from Islington.” | |
| |
| “So long a tramp?” Two gentle nods, | 25 |
| Then seemed to lift a wing, | |
| And words fell soft as willow-buds, | |
| “I came to find the Spring.” | |
| |
| A timid voice, yet not afraid | |
| In ways so sweet to roam, | 30 |
| As it with honey bees had played | |
| And could no more go home. | |
| |
| Her home! I saw the human lair, | |
| I heard the huckster’s bawl, | |
| I stifled with the thickened air | 35 |
| Of bickering mart and stall. | |
| |
| Without a tuppence for a ride, | |
| Her feet had set her free. | |
| Her rags, that decency defied, | |
| Seemed new with liberty. | 40 |
| |
| But she was frail. Who would might note | |
| The trail of hungering | |
| That for an hour she had forgot | |
| In wonder of the Spring. | |
| |
| So shriven by her joy she glowed | 45 |
| It seemed a sin to chat. | |
| (A tea-shop snuggled off the road; | |
| Why did I think of that?) | |
| |
| Oh, frail, so frail! I could have wept,— | |
| But she was passing on, | 50 |
| And I but muddled, “You’ll accept | |
| A penny for a bun?” | |
| |
| Then up her little throat a spray | |
| Of rose climbed for it must; | |
| A wilding lost till safe it lay | 55 |
| Hid by her curls of rust; | |
| |
| And I saw modesties at fence | |
| With pride that bore no name; | |
| So old it was she knew not whence | |
| It sudden woke and came; | 60 |
| |
| But that which shone of all most clear | |
| Was startled, sadder thought | |
| That I should give her back the fear | |
| Of life she had forgot. | |
| |
| And I blushed for the world we’d made, | 65 |
| Putting God’s hand aside, | |
| Till for the want of sun and shade | |
| His little children died; | |
| |
| And blushed that I who every year | |
| With Spring went up and down, | 70 |
| Must greet a soul that ached for her | |
| With “penny for a bun!” | |
| |
| Struck as a thief in holy place | |
| Whose sin upon him cries, | |
| I watched the flowers leave her face, | 75 |
| The song go from her eyes. | |
| |
| Then she, sweet heart, she saw my rout, | |
| And of her charity | |
| A hand of grace put softly out | |
| And took the coin from me. | 80 |
| |
| A red-cap sang in Bishop’s wood, | |
| A lark o’er Golder’s lane; | |
| But I, alone, still glooming stood, | |
| And April plucked in vain; | |
| |
| Till living words rang in my ears | 85 |
| And sudden music played: | |
| Out of such sacred thirst as hers | |
| The world shall be remade. | |
| |
| Afar she turned her head and smiled | |
| As might have smiled the Spring, | 90 |
| And humble as a wondering child | |
| I watched her vanishing. | |
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