by Thomas Hardy
When friendly summer calls again,
Her little fifers to these hills,
We'll go-we two-to that arched fane
Of leafage where they prime their bills
Before they start to flood the plain
With quavers, minims, shakes, and trills.
"-We'll go," I sing; but who shall say
What may not chance before that day!
And we shall see the waters spring,
From chinks the scrubby copses crown;
And we shall trace their oncreeping
To where the cascade tumbles down
And sends the bobbing growths aswing,
And ferns not quite but almost drown.
"-We shall," I say; but who may sing
Of what another moon will bring!
Last updated January 14, 2019