Page:Poet Lore, volume 27, 1916.djvu/133

Rh The lands beneath your wings unrolled— Are all the leagues of land that stretch North and south of the western Line. Wee-o-wee! Wee-o-wee! Wee-o-wee! From Labrador of the fog-wreathed pine, Down through Bermuda's salt-stained vetch; Over the Amazon's maze of vine, Into the pampas of Argentine: Above the earth, across the sea, You follow the summer's ascendant sign, You shun all scenes by the sun bereft. Wee-o-wee! Wee-o-wee! Wee-o-wee! Spring of the north is astir, golden plover! Up and a-wing to its glad decree! Back, with a ridge of the world to your left, You mottle the length of a continent's chine To weave through Alaska's tundra-weft The gold of your yearly jubilee: There joy and peace to love combine! Wee-o-wee! Wee-o-wee! Wee-o-wee!

Coodle! Coodle! Hist! Your golden rest is over: Off with your splendor! Away, away! On with the coat of the rover! Dip it and dye it in eastern mist! Plunge again over the dun Atlantic, Blaze again southward your cycle frantic! Away with you, loiterers, darts of October, Shafts that are swift as the light but more sober, Wraiths of the sea’s or the sky’s autumn grey! Away from the love of the north that elates you! Off to the feast of the south that awaits you! Flutter and rise with the joy that translates you To sprites of the air from creatures of clay! Onward, onward, spirits of fleetness! Faster faster! speedier speedier!— Gone! Vanished! Lost like the sweetness Of dawn in the ripening power of day!