THE thought of it comes to my mind, As through the town I go, And all the houses slip behind To let my hawthorn blow. The little lads troop through the grass To fill their hands with bloom; A single petal in a glass Makes Sussex in a room. Kinless and strange on the road's edge, Such art its blossoms hold, The sprawling fence becomes a hedge, The new world is the old. Who walks at dusk in green York Lane, A certain week of May, Hears music pour and pour again Down that enchanted way. He knows the nightingale is out, Singing in the old wise; While white as morning all about, A hundred thorn-trees rise. There in York Lane it blows and blows; And I am stripped of cares; One thought of it, and the town grows Brimful of Sussex airs. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WHY I AM A LIBERAL by ROBERT BROWNING THE BATTLE-FIELD by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT DOWN THE MISSISSIPPI: 5. THE STEVEDORES by JOHN GOULD FLETCHER TO A CYCLAMEN by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR ODE IN MEMORY OF THE AMERICAN VOLUNTEERS FALLEN FOR FRANCE by ALAN SEEGER AN AUTOGRAPH (1) by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 22 by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) AN EPITAPH UPON THE DEATH OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY by RICHARD BARNFIELD |