| |
| He shall not hear the bittern cry | |
| In the wild sky, where he is lain, | |
| Nor voices of the sweeter birds, | |
| Above the wailing of the rain. | |
| |
| Nor shall he know when loud March blows | 5 |
| Thro’ slanting snows her fanfare shrill, | |
| Blowing to flame the golden cup | |
| Of many an upset daffodil. | |
| |
| But when the Dark Cow leaves the moor, | |
| And pastures poor with greedy weeds, | 10 |
| Perhaps he’ll hear her low at morn, | |
| Lifting her horn in pleasant meads. |