"I AM GLAD THE MARTINS ARE BUILDING AGAIN...."

I AM glad the martins are building again, They had all departed From the old deserted House by the stream; Its windows were black to the snow and the rain And the sky and the sun, And the river sobbed on, Like a child in a dream, Under the unlopped sycamore boughs That stifled the old stone house. Now the axe-edge is blue on the sycamore rind, By the workers huzza'd Till the ashlared façade Outpeers its disguise; Now little white curtains flap out to the wind Across the grey sills And summer instils The peace of the skies And the zest of the sun into every old room So given to grief and gloom. And the children who wake the green walks with their mirth And lift the shy heads Of the flowers from their beds, By a strange cry stirred— Desert their dear pastime, look up from the earth, Up, up, through the leaves Where under the eaves Clings the back of the bird: And his nest-mate white-throated regards the new day From her arch of inverted clay.