THE autumn day steals, pallid as a ghost, Along these fields and man-forsaken ways; And o'er the hedgerows bramble-knotted maze The whitening locks of Old Man's Beard are tost. Here, shrunk by centuries of fire and frost, A crab tree stands where -- lingering gossip says -- In ocean-moated England's golden days, Great treasure, in a frolic, once was lost. Here -- fresh from fumes of some Falstaffian bout, When famous champions, fired by many a bet, Had drained huge bumpers while the stars would set -- Beneath its reeling branches by the way, Till twice twelve hours of April bloom were out -- Locked in oblivion -- Shakespeare lost a day. |