The seven years' curse is ended now

That drove me forth from this kind land,

From mulberry-bough and apple bough

And gummy twigs the west-wind shakes,

To drink the brine from crusted lakes

And grit my teeth on sand.

The load that from my shoulder slips

Straightway upon your own is tied,

You, too, shall scorch your finger-tips,

With scrabbling on the desert's face

Such thoughts I had for this green place,

Sent scapegoat for your pride.

Now for your cold, malicious brain

And most uncharitable, cold heart,

You, too, shall clank the seven years' chain

On sterile ground for all time curst

With famine's itch and flames of thirst,

The blank sky's counterpart.

Here, Robin on a tussock sits,

And Cuckoo with his call of hope

Cuckoos awhile, then off he flits,

While peals of dingle-dongle keep

Troop discipline among the sheep

That graze across the slope.

A brook from fields of gentle sun,

Through the glade his water heaves,

The falling cone would well-nigh stun

That squirrel wantonly lets drop,

When up he scampers to tree-top,

And dives among the green.