Thrice since then had the lanes been white,
And the orchard sweet with apple-bloom;
And now, when the cows came back at night,
The feeble father drove them home.
For news had come to the lonely farm
That three were lying where two had lain;
And the old man’s tremulous, palsied arm
Could never lean on a son’s again.
The summer days grew cool and late:
He went for the cows when the work was done;