LAPWINGS

When white ice tinkles on the rutted roads And icicles are bearding from the thatch; When fens are froze, the lapwings make despatch And all a-mewing come from their frost-bound abodes. With rush of wings upon the northern wind Across the wintry blue, like sparks of gold They flash into the valleys, hunger-bold, And seek their comforting with doubtful human-kind. They love the lew, where yellow corn-stacks stand, And puff their feathers in the pallid sun, Go daintily about and peep and run, Like pixy pilgrim folk of some far fairy-land. And near to bud-break, when young grey-eyed Spring, Clad in the silver of an April rain, Calls from the hill-tops, home they go again And lift their kitten cries to give her welcoming.