Oh fair enough are sky and plain, But I know fairer far: Those are as beautiful again That in the water are; The pools and rivers wash so clean

ow dreary dawns the eastern light, And fall of eve is drear, And cold the poor man lies at nigh… And so goes out the year. Little is the luck I’ve had,

The half-moon westers low, my love… And the wind brings up the rain; And wide apart lie we, my love, And seas between the twain. I know not if it rains, my love,

As through the wild green hills of… The train ran, changing sky and sh… And far behind, a fading crest, Low in the forsaken west Sank the high-reared head of Clee…

At the door of my own little hovel… Reading a novel I sat; And as I was reading the novel A gnat flew away with my hat. As fast as a fraudulent banker

Far in a western brookland That bred me long ago The poplars stand and tremble By pools I used to know. There, in the windless night-time,

The stinging nettle only Will still be found to stand: The numberless, the lonely, The thronger of the land, The leaf that hurts the hand.

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough… And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and te…

Farewell to a name and a number Recalled again To darkness and silence and slumbe… In blood and pain. So ceases and turns to the thing

Good creatures, do you love your l… And have you ears for sense? Here is a knife like other knives, That cost me eighteen pence. I need but stick it in my heart

'Tis spring; come out to ramble The hilly brakes around, For under thorn and bramble About the hollow ground The primroses are found.

Once in the wind of morning I ranged the thymy wold; The world-wide air was azure And all the brooks ran gold. There through the dews beside me

“Clunton and Clunbury, Clungunford and Clun, Are the quietest places Under the sun.” In valleys of springs and rivers,

The world goes none the lamer For ought that I can see, Because this cursed trouble Has struck my days and me. The stars of heaven are steady,

Here dead we lie Because we did not choose To live and shame the land From which we sprung. Life, to be sure,