The mallow blooms in late July
Along the dusty track
To Romsey where the waters run
And Norman stones confront the sun—
Ah, Dear, that all our work were done
And we were getting back!
The whinchat in the willow runs
From silver stair to stair,
Cocks his white eyebrow, tunes his throat
And plans his little creaking note
To please the leaves that past him float—
Ah, Dear, that we were there!
Now all the world is carrying hay
And all the world is wise,
And O to trudge it once again
There in the wake of a green wain
That over-tops the rustling lane
Beneath familiar skies!