But in my dreams all night, in that dark shed,
With aching arms I beat fine gold for bread.
ON HAMPSTEAD HEATH
Against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree,
His scarlet tunic burns;
And livelier than the green sap’s mantling glee
The spring fire tingles through him headily
As quivering he turns
And stammers out the old amazing tale
Of youth and April weather;