Dark is the forest and deep, and o… Hang stars like seeds of light In vain, though not since they wer… Anything more bright. And evermore mighty multitudes rid…

Under the after-sunset sky Two pewits sport and cry, More white than is the moon on hig… Riding the dark surge silently; More black than earth. Their cry

f I were to own this countryside As far as a man in a day could rid… And the Tyes were mine for giving… Wingle Tye and Margaretting Tye, - and Skreens, Gooshays, and…

I never had noticed it until ’Twas gone, - the narrow copse Where now the woodman lops The last of the willows with his b… It was not more than a hedge overg…

Half of the grove stood dead, and… Little more than the dead ones mad… If they led to a house, long befor… But they welcomed me; I was glad… Scarce a hundred paces under the t…

The flowers left thick at nightfal… This Eastertide call into mind th… Now far from home, who, with their… Have gathered them and will do nev…

Some day, I think, there will be… In Froxfield to pick all the blac… Out of the hedges of Green Lane,… Broad lane where now September hi… In bracken and blackberry, harebel…

NOW first, as I shut the door, I was alone In the new house; and the wind Began to moan. Old at once was the house,

THE long small room that showed w… Narrowed up to the end the firepla… Although not wide. I liked it. No… What need or accident made them so… Only the moon, the mouse, and the…

TALL nettles cover up, as they h… These many springs, the rusty harr… Long worn out, and the roller made… Only the elm butt tops the nettles… This corner of the farmyard I lik…

t stood in the sunset sky Like the straight-backed down, Many a time - the barn At the edge of town, So huge and dark that it seemed

I LOVE roads: The goddesses that dwell Far along invisible Are my favourite gods. Roads go on

A fortnight before Christmas Gyps… Vans were drawn up on wastes, wome… ‘My gentleman,’ said one, 'you’ve… ‘And you’ve a luckier,' I thought… And impudence in rags are lucky.’…

She is most fair, And when they see her pass The poets’ ladies Look no more in the glass But after her.

Out of us all That make rhymes Will you choose Sometimes - As the winds use