And you, Helen, what should I give you?
So many things I would give you
Had I an infinite great store
Offered me and I stood before
In the gloom of whiteness,
In the great silence of snow,
A child was sighing
And bitterly saying: "Oh,
The rain of a night and a day and a night
Stops at the light
Of this pale choked day. The peering sun
Sees what has been done.
OUT of the wood of thoughts that grows by night
To be cut down by the sharp ax of light,--
Out of the night, two cocks together crow,
Cleaving the darkness with a silver blow:
WHEN first I came here I had hope,
Hope for I knew not what. Fast beat
My heart at the sight of the tall slope
Or grass and yews, as if my feet
NOW first, as I shut the door,
I was alone
In the new house; and the wind
Began to moan.
Women he liked, did shovel-bearded Bob,
Old Farmer Hayward of the Heath, but he
Loved horses. He himself was like a cob
And leather-coloured. Also he loved a tree.
IT was a perfect day
For sowing; just
As sweet and dry was the ground
This ploughman dead in battle slept out of doors
Many a frozen night, and merrily
Answered staid drinkers, good bedmen, and all bores:
"At Mrs Greenland's Hawthorn Bush," said he,
The flowers left thick at nightfall in the wood
This Eastertide call into mind the men,
Now far from home, who, with their sweethearts, should
Have gathered them and will do never again.