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Poems

Chapter 5: SPRING WIND IN LONDON
By Katherine Mansfield
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Poetry

About This Book

A lyrical collection of short poems grouped by creative periods, ranging from intimate sketches of domestic and childhood moments to meditations on nature, the sea, love, loss, and memory. Many pieces blend concise, imagistic language with prose-like rhythms, alternating playful child verses and delicate elegies, and often evoke sensory detail—light, wind, flowers, and seaside landscapes—to explore fleeting moods and inward reflection. Several poems record quiet domestic scenes and grieving recollections, while others experiment with voice and form, producing both whimsical and mournful tones. The result is an intimate, varied sequence that emphasizes emotion, perception, and the small gestures that shape inner life.

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-dog am I
 And shepherd-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.
O 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.
1909.