Cottage and ploughland, green lanes weaving,

Working-folk stopping to stare overhead –

Lovely, most lovely, past all believing

To eyes of men new-raised from the dead.

Beatrice R. Gibbs

Hungary

Look,

At these flat lands

Before you. Endless sky

Fills empty space.

Stand here,

And open up your mind.

Notice the light

Riding on its cloud horse

Throwing shadows

On the grassy ground.

Stand here

And hear the whistle of the wind

Blowing the golden sand.

Remember it,

Elsewhere,

The free and wild wind,

As a gentle touch.

Vivien Urban

Spring Wind in London

I blow across the stagnant world,

I blow across the sea,

For me, the sailor’s flag unfurled,

For me, the uprooted tree.

My challenge to the world is hurled;

The world must bow to me.

I drive the clouds across the sky,

I huddle them like sheep,

Merciless shepherd’s dog am I

And shepherd’s watch I keep.

If in the quiet vales they lie

I blow them up the steep.

Lo! In the tree-tops do I hide,

In every living thing;

On the moon’s yellow wings I glide,

On the wild rose I swing;

On the sea-horse’s back I ride,

And what then do I bring?

And when a little child is ill

I pause, and with my hand

I wave the window curtain’s frill

That he may understand

Outside the wind is blowing still;

. . . It is a pleasant land.

Oh, stranger in a foreign place,

See what I bring to you.

This rain – is tears upon your face;

I tell you – tell you true

I came from that forgotten place

Where once the wattle grew.

All the wild sweetness of the flower

Tangled against the wall.

It was that magic, silent hour . . .

The branches grew so tall

They twined themselves into a bower.

The sun shone . . . and the fall

Of yellow blossom on the grass!

You feel that golden rain?

Both of you could not hold, alas,

Both of you tried – in vain.

A memory, stranger. So I pass . . .

It will not come again.

Katherine Mansfield

from Sonnets from a Lock Box

XXV

Into the void behold my shuddering flight,

Plunging straight forward through unhuman space,

My wild hair backward blown and my white face

Set like a wedge of ice. My chattering teeth

Cut like sharp knives my swiftly freezing breath.

Perched upon straightness I seek a wilder zone.

My Flying Self – on this black steed alone –

Drives out to God or else to utter death.

Beware straight lines which do subdue man’s pride!

’Tis on a broomstick that great witches ride.

Wild, dangerous and holy are the runes

Which shift the whirling atoms with their tunes.

Oh like a witch accursed shall she be burned

Who having flown on straightness has returned.

Anna Hempstead Branch

The Full Indian Rope Trick

There was no secret

murmured down through a long line

of elect; no dark fakir, no flutter