A walk along the lane which leads down to the Ardmore Penninsula was a Hardy-esque experience. By that I mean, the edge of the road (we are not talking hedgerows here) was lush with high bowers of wild roses falling over the fences. A girl on her horse passed me; it wasn't Tess (here) but could have been! A lady leading a horse into a field went in the other direction.
When friendly summer calls again,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!
- from Summer Schemes
If seasons all were summers,And leaves would never fall,
- from The Farm-Woman's Winter
... hills of blue,Blind drifts of vapour blow...
- Where They Lived
No comments:
Post a Comment