viii

There is a bank that always gets The noon sun full; There we'd hunt for violets After morning school. White and blue we hunted them In the moss, and gave them, Dropping-tir'd and short in stem, To Mother. She must have them.

Primrose-mornings in the copse, Autumn berrying Where the dew for ever stops, And the serrying, Clinging shrouds of gossamers Glue your eyes together; Gleaning after harvesters In the mild blue weather—

Life so full of bud and blossom, Fallen like a tree! Who gave me a woman's bosom— And who has robb'd me?