The Flitting (excerpt)

I’ve left mine own old home of homes
Green fields & every pleasant place
The summer like a stranger comes
I pause & hardly know her face.

I miss the hazels happy green
The bluebells quiet hanging blooms
Where envy’s sneer was never seen
Where staring malice never comes.

I miss the heath its yellow furze
Molehills & rabbit tracts that lead
Through beesom, ling & teazle burrs
That spread a wilderness indeed.

The woodland oaks & all below
That their white powdered branches shield
The mossy paths—the very crow
Croaks music in my native field.

No comments: