The highroad runs plain
Between Thaxted and Dunmow,
But I had chosen to go
By bridle-path and lane;
To see the champaign,
And the stooks a-row--
There I met an old fellow
Standing in the rain.
He was bowed and lean;
But clear was his eye
As a rift of March sky,
His face like a quarrendine.
‘You must have seen
Many changes,’ said I.
‘Changes, lady? Aye!
Four times I have been
‘Forced to lie abed;
Once I had the ague,
And thrice did I spew
Up my blood so red.
’Twas my lungs, Doctor said,
And the most I could do
To last a week or two--
Ten years he’s been dead.
‘My wife died.
And then after her
My eldest daughter.
Eight years come Whitsuntide
The house where we did bide
Was pulled down. It stood yonder,
Just by that tall fir
With the rick alongside.’
Thus did he talk,
Twisting the while
A sprig of camomile
Or a corn-stalk.
‘Follow the grassy baulk
Till you come to a stile.’
So, mile by mile,
He told over my walk.
Musing on country folk
I bade him good-day.
And going on my way
To myself I spoke:
As well might I invoke
These hedges to say
Who passed by yesterday;
Or question yonder oak,
Bidding it declare
What changes it had seen,
‘In summer I was green,
Acorns did I bear.
Come winter, I was bare.
For years full eighteen
This meadow has not been
Under the ploughshare.’
But Labour-in-Vain
Was the epitome
Of changes sighed to me
By the doomed champaign.
And turning once again,
Far off did I see
The man and the tree
Standing in the rain.