The woods we used to walk, my love,
Are woods no more,
But' villas' now with sounding names—
All name and door.

The pond, where, early on in March,
The yellow cup
Of water-lilies made us glad,
Is now filled up.

But ah! what if they fill or fell
Each pond, each tree,
What matters it to-day, my love,
To me—to thee?

The jerry-builder may consume,
A greedy moth,
God's mantle of the living green,
I feel no wrath;

Eat up the beauty of the world,
And gorge his fill
On mead and winding country lane,
And grassy hill.

I only laugh, for now of these
I have no care,
Now that to me the fair is foul,
And foul as fair.