Heather

YOU talk of pale primroses,

Of frail and fragrant posies,

  The cowslip and the cuckoo-flower

    that scent the spring-time lea.

      But give to me the heather,

      The honey-scented heather,

     The glowing gipsy heather--

  That is the flower for me!

You love the garden alleys,

Smooth-shaven lawns and valleys,

  The cornfield and the shady lane, and

    fisher-sails at sea.

      But give to me the moorland,

      The noble purple moorland,

      The free, far-stretching moorland--

  That is the land for me!

Flora Thompson

August Again

THE heather flings her purple robe

  Once more upon the hill;

Beneath a shivering aspen-tree

  My Love lies cold and still;--

Ah, very deep my Love must sleep,

  On that far Flemish plain,

If he does not know that the heath-bells blow

  On the Hampshire hills again!

O, other maids take other men,

  And just a passing sigh

Will not disturb the lightest dream;

  But my poor heart would die

If so very deep my Love should sleep

  Beneath his foreign tree,

That he did not stir at the thought of her

  Who could love so faithfully!

Flora Thompson

Garden Fires

A DRIFT of wood and weed-smoke

  Floats o'er the garden spaces,

Circling the orchard tree-tops;

  They're burning up the traces

    Of Winter from the earth,

    Now Spring has birth.

Soft showers of snowy petals

  Bestrew the bright, lush green;

Blue smokewreaths wheel and thicken

  As warm winds stir between,

    And living tongues of flame

    Put daffodils to shame.

And men shall make such fires,

  And warm Spring winds blow free,

When all the great desires

   Which rend the heart of me

    Shall dwindle into dust,

    For Time is just!

Flora Thompson

To Ronald Campbell Macfie

YOURS are the moors, the billowy seas,

Tall mountains and blue distances.

Mine is a cottage garden, set

With marigold and mignonette,

And all the wildling things that dare,

Without a gardener's fostering care.

Yet very well-content I rest

In my obscure, sequestered nest:

For from my cottage garden I

Can see your cloud-peaks pierce the sky!

Flora Thompson

The Earthly Paradise

I DESIRE no heaven of gold harps,

Give me the harps of earth--

Pine trees with red gold on their stems,

The music of the west wind in their branches!

When I am old,

Give me for heaven a little house set on a heath;

The blue hills behind; the blue sea before.

The brick floors scoured crimson, the flagstones like snow;

The brass taps and candlesticks like gold,

And there, in my soft grey gown between the holly-hocks,

Upon a day of days I would welcome an old poet;

And pour him tea, and walk on the heath, and talk the sun down;

And then by the wood fire he should read me the poems

    of his passionate youth,

And make new ones praising friendship above love!

Flora Thompson