At Quincey's moat the squandering village ends, And there in the almshouse dwell the dearest friends Of all the village, two old dames that cling As close as any trueloves in the spring....
Friend whom I never saw, yet dearest friend, Be with me travelling on the byeway now In April's month and mood: our steps shall bend By the shut smithy with its penthouse brow...
On the far hill the cloud of thunder grew And sunlight blurred below; but sultry blue Burned yet on the valley water where it hoards Behind the miller's elmen floodgate boards,...
I came to the churchyard where pretty Joy lies On a morning in April, a rare sunny day; Such bloom rose around, and so many birds' cries That I sang for delight as I followed the way. ...
From what sad star I know not, but I found Myself new-born below the coppice rail, No bigger than the dewdrops and as round, In a soft sward, no cattle might assail. ...
Already fallen plum-bloom stars the green And apple-boughs as knarred as old toads' backs Wear their small roses ere a rose is seen; The building thrush watches old Job who stacks...