In summer and in spring the anemone,
And thymy sheep-paths where the ploughboy plods
Home to his frugal but sufficient tea.
Not for a crown, grim coal, would I pursue thee
In subterranean passages and hew thee
Mid poisonous fumes and draughts of tepid tea.
Yet were I all undone should I eschew thee;
Someone, in short, must dig thee up for me;
And, if he deems it worth a pound a day,
Well, who am I to say the fellow nay?