The forest paths are muddy, after the rain;
The meadows are soaked through and through again.
The blackbirds in the yellow osiers sing,
The yellow osiers good for basketing.
I have been drinking at the rusty spout,
That glints with moss and spits the cold source out.
I would have loved you in this mossy place,
In days gone by, because of your sweet face.
But now I smile, as I my pipe begin,
The dreams I had were like magpies that spin.
I have reflected. And read novels, then