A Dream JourneyMilly JourdainThe rain is falling cold and grey,But spring is in the air;And thinking of a warmer landI wish that I were there.I see around me in the grass,Like stars of tender blue,The little crocus growing wildAnd making all things new.I lie upon a sun-warmed hillAnd thundering hear the waves below,A breath from hidden violetsComes when the wind doth blow.Anemones with coloured headsAnd hidden deep-black eyesAre growing near the glimpse of sea,Whose slow noise never dies.At last I wake in evening lightAnd hear the sky-larks singAbove the fields all glistening-wetAnd green with early spring."The Floods Are Risen . . . "Milly JourdainThe great white sea has flooded all the land,And little waves are blown against the pathWith tiny sounds like dry and restless throbs:A white-sailed boat skims like a frightened mothInto the dusk: the grey clouds grow darkerAnd dim the yellow light; we turn and leaveThe cold wind blowing on the ruffled sea.
A poem like this second one leaves me thinking: what could she have been, this writer, if the cards had been stacked otherwise? Oh, that boat skimming like a frightened moth. I see it in my dreams.