Romance

OLD orchard crofts of Picardy, In the high warm winds of May, Tossed into blossomed billowings, And spattered the roads with spray. Over the earth the scudding cloud, And the laverock whistling high, Lifted the drooping heart of the lad At one bound to the sky. France! France! and the old romance Came over him like a spell;

Homesickness and his weariness Shook from him then and fell; For he was again with d'Artagnan; With Alan Breck and d'Artagnan; And the pipes before him gleefully Were playing airs of Pan.

Through dust that in a mist uprose From under the trampling feet, He saw old storied places, dim In the haze of the summer heat. Menace and ambush, wounds and death, Lurked in the ditch and wood, But he, high-breasted, walked in joy With a glorious multitude; Great hearts that never perish, Nor grow old with the aches of Time, Marched through the morning with him, All in a magic clime; But loved of all was d'Artagnan, And Alan the kith of kings, Fond comrades of his childhood's days, Still on their wanderings.