You who have gone gathering Cornflowers and meadowsweet, Heard the hazels glancing down On September eves, Seen the homeward rooks on wing Over fields of golden wheat,...
He was a man with wide and patient eyes, Grey, like the drift of twitch-fires blown in June, That, without fearing, searched if any wrong Might threaten from your heart. Grey eyes he had...
Sometimes the ghosts forgotten go Along the hill-top way, And with long scythes of silver mow Meadows of moonlit hay, Until the cocks of Cotswold crow The coming of the day. ...