Evans Experientialism Evans  Evans Experientialism Evans | |
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| MY CHAFFINCH | |
`If we had never before looked upon the earth, but suddenly came to it man or woman grown, set down in the midst of a summer mead, would it not seem to us a radiant vision? The hues, the shapes, the song and life of birds, above all the sunlight, the breath of heaven, resting on it; the mind would be filled with its glory unable to grasp it, hardly believing that such things could be mere matter ... too beautiful to be long watched lest it should fade away.'from: 'Wild Flowers', The Open Air. | |
| His hours he spends upon a fragrant fir; His merry 'chink,' his happy 'Kiss me, dear,' Each moment sounded, keeps the copse astir. Loudly he challenges his rivals near, Anon aslant down to the ground he springs, Like to a sunbeam made of coloured wings. The firm and solid azure of the ceil That struck by hand would give a hollow sound, A dome turned perfect by the sun's great wheel, Whose edges rest upon the hills around, Rings many a mile with blue enamelled wall; His fir-tree is the centre of it all. A lichened cup he set against the side High up this mast, earth-stepped, that could not fail, But swung a little as a ship might ride, Keeping an easy balance in the gale; Slow-heaving like a gladiator's breast, Whose strength in combat feels an idle rest. Whether the cuckoo or the chaffinch most Do triumph in the issuing of their song? I say not this, but many a swelling boast They throw each at the other all day long. Soon as the nest had cradled eggs a-twin The jolly squirrel climbed to look therein. Adown the lane athwart this pleasant wood The broad-winged butterflies their solace sought; A green-necked pheasant in the sunlight stood, Nor could the rushes hide him as he thought. A humble-bee through fern and thistle made A search for lowly flowers in the shade. A thing of many wanderings, and loss, Like to Ulysses on his poplar raft, His treasure hid beneath the tunnelled moss Lest that a thief his labour steal with craft, Up the round hill, sheep-dotted, was his way, Zigzagging where some new adventure lay. 'My life and soul,' as if he were a Greek, His heart was Grecian in his greenwood fane; 'My life and soul,' through all the sunny week The chaffinch sang with beating heart amain, The humble-bee the wide wood-world may roam; One feather's breadth I shall not stir from home.' No note he took of what the swallows said About the firing of some evil gun, Nor if the butterflies were blue or red, For all his feelings were intent in one. The loving soul, a-thrill in all his nerves, A life immortal as a man's deserves. | |
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