POEM OF THE DAY

Our northern dawn is breaking at about halfpast three these days but, for Thomas Hardy in Dorset, four o’clock was the witching hour. Curiously, there is no mention of birds in the top poem but the little companion piece makes amends.

Its last line, incidentally, gave the title to a lovely song cycle by Gerald Finzi.

FOUR IN THE MORNING

At four this day of June I rise:

The dawn-light strengthens steadily; Earth is a cerule mystery,

As if not far from Paradise

At four o’clock,

Or else near the Great Nebula Or where the Pleiads blink and smile: (For though we see with eyes of guile The grisly grin of things by day,

At four o’clock

They show their best.) . . . In this vale’s space

I am up the first, I think. Yet, no, A whistling? and the to-and-fro Wheezed whettings of a scythe apace

At four o’clock? . . .

- Though pleasure spurred, I rose with irk;

Here is one at compulsion’s whip Taking his life’s stern stewardship With blithe uncare, and hard at work

At four o’clock!

PROUD SONGSTERS

The thrushes sing as the sun is going, And the finches whistle in ones and pairs,

And as it gets dark loud nightingales

In bushes

Pipe, as they can when April wears, As if all Time were theirs.

These are brand-new birds of twelvemonths’

growing,

Which a year ago, or less than twain, No finches were, nor nightingales,

Nor thrushes,

But only particles of grain,

And earth, and air, and rain.