And ripened labor reaps fulfillment of its vow.
Then, though no more the oblivious cuckoo calls
From land to land, nor longer on the spray
Of yellowing elm the throstle vaunts his lay,
The ringdove's mate, as fades the leaf and falls,
Reiterates its note of love that never palls.
Though fluttereth still the soul-like lark aloft,
There is a quiet in the woodland ways,
The retrospective hush of vanished days,
And around garden close and orchard croft