THE REGRET
The mallow blooms in late July Along the dusty track To Romsey where the waters run And Norman stones confront the sun— Ah, Dear, that all our work were done And we were getting back!
The whinchat in the willow runs From silver stair to stair, Cocks his white eyebrow, tunes his throat And plans his little creaking note To please the leaves that past him float— Ah, Dear, that we were there!
Now all the world is carrying hay And all the world is wise, And O to trudge it once again There in the wake of a green wain That over-tops the rustling lane Beneath familiar skies!
FIRST SNOW
Now Hertha hath, without a doubt, Got all her winter peltry out; And, for the weeds dispersèd show Dark through that field of fallen snow, We may felicitate in her The happy choice of minever.
The well beside the rusty shed Hath screened his pent-house lapt in lead In candour of Carthusian cowl, (Soft as the plumage of white owl), Whose pail, for all the long night’s drouth, Hath foam about his sable mouth.
How dark my cottage window eyes Her wonted landscape’s white disguise— Ho, Sulky-face, thine own brick ledge Beareth such burden as the hedge, And thatch, for all the warmth within, Is bearded like a Capuchin!