Under the Woods
WHEN these old woods were youngThe thrushes' ancestorsAs sweetly sungIn the old years.
There was no garden here,Apples nor mistletoe;No children dearRan to and fro.
New then was this thatched cot,But the keeper was old,And he had notMuch lead or gold.
Most silent beech and yew:As he went round aboutThe woods to viewSeldom he shot.
But now that he is goneOut of most memories,Still lingers on,A stoat of his,
But one, shrivelled and green,And with no scent at all,And barely seenOn this shed wall.
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