# Poet Lore/Volume 27/Number 1/The Golden Plover

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THE GOLDEN PLOVER
By Richard Butler Glaenzer
A song for you, golden plover:
Not the song of a lover Who dreams of a blush, Nor the song for a thrush Whose music is tremulous, sweet; But a song for a heart that dares tempest or hush, A measure for wings that are fleet.
Fleet . . . fleet . . . fleet . . . !
Who but the winds can trace you, chase you? Flutter of lightning, you southward sweep, To the wonder of thunder you overleap. Faster . . . faster . . . faster . . . ! Who but the winds can face you, pace you? Fearless of foaming and booming and crash; Scorner of breeze, adorner of zephr; Come . . . gone . . in a flash! Speedier . . . speedier . . . speedier . . . ! Who but the winds can overtake you? Who but a gale can check and shake you? Who but a hurricane can make you Drop to the earth whose worth shall wake you From your frenzied trance of flight?
Like a volley of shot your flocks alight, Scattering gracefully over the sedge, Palled in spume from the cauldron’s edge. Surer than furrow’s is breaker’s pledge: Whom the welter of sea and sky invite, On the lands of man show sudden fright.
A song for you, golden plover: Not the song for a lover Who dreams of a flush Of delicate plumes that gleam as they hover Over a flower they make less fair; But a song of wings whose miraculous rush Is measure atune with the air.
Warriors, not courtiers you, Your courting season through,— Dotterel darts, befeathered sober, Mellowed with yellow by brisk October, Who, from his Nova Scotian post, Hurls you over the swirled Atlantic— Hurls you, pipers corybantic— Straight for the Venezuelan coast: Two thousand miles! Two thousand miles! While the gods of Air crowd heaven’s aisles, With loud-fleered taunts for the vaunting boast That man is peer of their wing-born host.
“Aie! . . . Aie! . . . Aie! . . . ” Moans the rancorous Sheol of winds. Out of the ooze of the sulphurous Gulf Springs into fury the Mocker of Masts, Snarls through the Caribs and harries with blasts: Shrieking seeks you, sprites from the North; Ruffles and buffets you, grapples to check you; With maniac might would baffle and wreck you But for the froth of sabre-reefed isles Which, faint through the smoke of desolate miles, Whispers, encourages, beckons you forth, Calls you to fall from the maelstrom of wiles: “Oh-èh! . . . Oh-èh! . . .Oh-èh! . . . Safety we promise and shelter and rest From the howling Fiend of the foul Southwest!” Out of the fray of reeking grey Whines the cheated Harpy of winds: “Aie! . . . Aie! . . . Aie! . . .”   On the shoulder of Night expires her rage; So melts to calm the ocean's wrath: Day blooms like a rose on a beryl path In the Garden of Peace of the Golden Age.
Wee-o-wee! Wee-o-wee! Wee-o -wee! Joy but no peace for you, golden plover: Only in June may you play the lover, Satined in wooing black and gold. Till then the leagues that you will cover,—
The lands beneath your wings unrolled— Are all the leagues of land that stretch North and south of the western Line. Wee-o-wee! Wee-o-wee! Wee-o-wee! From Labrador of the fog-wreathed pine, Down through Bermuda's salt-stained vetch; Over the Amazon's maze of vine, Into the pampas of Argentine: Above the earth, across the sea, You follow the summer's ascendant sign, You shun all scenes by the sun bereft. Wee-o-wee! Wee-o-wee! Wee-o-wee! Spring of the north is astir, golden plover! Up and a-wing to its glad decree! Back, with a ridge of the world to your left, You mottle the length of a continent's chine To weave through Alaska's tundra-weft The gold of your yearly jubilee: There joy and peace to love combine! Wee-o-wee! Wee-o-wee! Wee-o-wee!
Coodle! . . . Coodle! . . . Hist! Your golden rest is over: Off with your splendor! Away, away! On with the coat of the rover! Dip it and dye it in eastern mist! Plunge again over the dun Atlantic, Blaze again southward your cycle frantic! Away with you, loiterers, darts of October, Shafts that are swift as the light but more sober, Wraiths of the sea’s or the sky’s autumn grey! Away from the love of the north that elates you! Off to the feast of the south that awaits you! Flutter and rise with the joy that translates you To sprites of the air from creatures of clay! Onward, onward, spirits of fleetness! . . . Faster . . . faster! . . . speedier . . . speedier!— Gone! Vanished! Lost like the sweetness Of dawn in the ripening power of day!
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1937, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 86 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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