  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! |
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