  When the feet of the rain tread a dance on the roofs, And the wind slides through the rocks and the trees, And Dobbin has stabled his hoofs In the warm bracken-litter, noisy about his knees; And when there is no moon, and the sodden clouds slip over; Whenever there is no moon, and the rain drips cold, And folk with a shilling of money are bedded in houses, And pools of water glitter on Farmer’s mould; Then pity Sally’s girls, with the rain in their blouses: Martha and Johnnie, who have no money: The small naked puppies who whimper against the bitches, The small sopping children who creep to the ditches. But when the moon is run like a red fox Cover to cover behind the skies; And the breezes crack in the trees on the rocks, Or stoop to flutter about the eyes Of one who dreams in the scent of pines At ease: Then would you not go foot it with Sarah’s Girls In and out the trees? Or listen across the fire To old Tinker-Johnnie, and Martha his Rawnee, In jagged Wales, or in orchard Worcestershire? |
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