THAT shower-silvery grass where the damson-flower drifted And the small frog leapt clear as I came, That songburst when out of the thunder-cloud lifted The sun sent his paean of flame, Those rustlings of wrens in the ivy -- dear God, I saw every leaf of the lane I then trod! But now the grey age passes by my faint senses And charm lies wing-shattered or dead; No orchard-bough blossoms above these steel fences; The clay-coloured clouds overhead Neither speak in proud thunder, nor let the sun smile On the dust-track unsignatured mile after mile. |