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THE TRAVELLER
by John Drinkwater

When March was master of furrow and fold,
And the skies kept cloudy festival,
And the daffodil pods were tipped with gold
And a passion was in the plover's call,
A spare old man went hobbling by
With a broken pipe and a tapping stick,
And he mumbled ' Blossom before I die,
Be quick, you little brown buds, be quick.

'I've weathered the world for a count of years
Good old years of shining fire
And death and the devil bring no fears,
And I've fed the flame of my last desire;
I'm ready to go, but I'd pass the gate
On the edge of the world with an old heart sick
If I missed the blossoms. I may not wait
The gate is open be quick, be quick.'


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