XLV.
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ONTENTS In summertime on Bredon . . .The street sounds to the soldiers’ treadThe lads in their hundreds .Say, lad, have you things to do .This time of year twelvemonth past .Along the field as we came byIs my team ploughing . Pare GorHigh the vanes of Shrewsbury gleam .’Tis spring; come out to ramble .Others, I am not the firstOn Wenlock Edge the wood’s in trouhleFrom far, from eve and morning .If truth in hearts that perish .Ohwsick: lam! torsee:y OU. uae neOn the idle hill of summer . . .White in the moon the long road lies .As through the wild green hills ofWyre ‘The winds out of the west fend blow :*Tis time, I think, by Wenlock townInto my heart an air that kills .In my own shire, if I was sadOnce in the wind of morning heWhen I meet the morning beamShot? so quick, so clean an ending .If it chance your eye offend you . .Bring, in this timeless grave to throw .vi
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