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This is the weather the shepherd shuns, And so do I; When beeches drip in browns and duns, And thresh, and ply; And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe, And meadow rivulets overflow, And drops on gate-bars hang in a row, And rooks in families homeward go, And so do I.

THE MAID OF KEINTON MANDEVILLE (A TRIBUTE TO SIR H. BISHOP)

I HEAR that maiden still Of Keinton Mandeville Singing, in flights that played As wind-wafts through us all, Till they made our mood a thrall To their aery rise and fall, “Should he upbraid.”

Rose-necked, in sky-gray gown, From a stage in Stower Town Did she sing, and singing smile As she blent that dexterous voice With the ditty of her choice, And banished our annoys Thereawhile.

One with such song had power To wing the heaviest hour Of him who housed with her. Who did I never knew When her spoused estate ondrew, And her warble flung its woo In his ear.

Ah, she’s a beldame now, Time-trenched on cheek and brow, Whom I once heard as a maid From Keinton Mandeville Of matchless scope and skill Sing, with smile and swell and trill, “Should he upbraid!”

1915 or 1916.