The cockchafer hums down the rut-rifted lane
Where the wild roses hang & the woodbines entwine
& the shrill squeaking bat makes his circles again
Round the side of the tavern close by the sign
The sun is gone down like a wearisome queen,
In curtains the richest that ever were seen
The dew falls on flowers in a mist of small rain
& beating the hedges low fly the barn owls
The moon with her horns is just peeping again
& deep in the forest the dog-badger howls
In best bib & tucker then wanders my Jane
By the side of the woodbines which grow in the lane
& the shrill squeaking bat makes his circles again
Round the side of the tavern close by the sign
The sun is gone down like a wearisome queen,
In curtains the richest that ever were seen
The dew falls on flowers in a mist of small rain
& beating the hedges low fly the barn owls
The moon with her horns is just peeping again
& deep in the forest the dog-badger howls
In best bib & tucker then wanders my Jane
By the side of the woodbines which grow in the lane
#poetry #environment
#honesty
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