'Tis spring; come out to ramble The hilly brakes around, For under thorn and bramble About the hollow ground The primroses are found.

I hoed and trenched and weeded, And took the flowers to fair: I brought them home unheeded; The hue was not the wear. So up and down I sow them

When smoke stood up from Ludlow, And mist blew off from Teme, And blithe afield to ploughing Against the morning beam I strode beside my team,

In my own shire, if I was sad, Homely comforters I had: The earth, because my heart was so… Sorrowed for the son she bore; And standing hills, long to remain…

White in the moon the long road li… The moon stands blank above; White in the moon the long road li… That leads me from my love. Still hangs the hedge without a gu…

Could man be drunk for ever With liquor, love, or fights, Lief should I rouse at morning And lief lie down of nights. But men at whiles are sober

You smile upon your friend to-day, To-day his ills are over; You hearken to the lover’s say, And happy is the lover. 'Tis late to hearken, late to smil…

Oh fair enough are sky and plain, But I know fairer far: Those are as beautiful again That in the water are; The pools and rivers wash so clean

The half-moon westers low, my love… And the wind brings up the rain; And wide apart lie we, my love, And seas between the twain. I know not if it rains, my love,

Horace, Odes, iv, 7 The snows are fled away, leaves on… And grasses in the mead renew thei… The river to the river-bed withdra… And altered is the fashion of the…

Wake not for the world-heard thund… Nor the chimes that earthquakes to… Stars may plot in heaven with plan… Lightning rive the rock of granite… Tempest tread the oakwood under,

Now hollow fires burn out to black… And lights are guttering low: Square your shoulders, lift your p… And leave your friends and go. Oh never fear, man, nought’s to dr…

The rainy Pleiads wester, Orion plunges prone, The stroke of midnight ceases And I lie down alone. The rainy Pleiads wester,

The sloe was lost in flower, The April elm was dim; That was the lover’s hour, The hour for lies and him. If thorns are all the bower,

The Wain upon the northern steep Descends and lifts away. Oh I will sit me down and weep For bones in Africa. For pay and medals, name and rank,