I hear no more the locust beat
His shrill loud drum through all the day;
I miss the mingled odours sweet
Of clover and of scented hay.
No more I hear the smothered song 5
From hedges guarded thick with thorn:
The days grow brief, the nights are long,
The light comes like a ghost at morn.
I sit before my fire alone,
And idly dream of all the past: 10