The rustle in the hedge,
The whisper in the grass when dandelions bloom,
The madrigals that lift the dampness hanging over graves.
THE OLD ROAD DOWN TO PLYMOUTH.
The old road down to Plymouth can never change for me,
In vagabond abandon it roams a century,
Braids through the dusky mornings, and evening’s afterglow,
An irridescent sunbeam, no matter where I go.
The old road down to Plymouth leads from a farmhouse door,
Leads like a jewelled ribbon, a thousand miles or more;