The rock-like mud unfroze a little and rills / Ran and sparkled down each side of the road / Under the catkins wagging in the hedge
Black rocks with white gulls following the plough
... the sun on the celandines...
What did the thrushes know? Rain, snow, sleet, hail, / had kept them quiet as the primroses.
ad kept the
After a night of frost, before / The March sun brightened and the South-west blew, / Jackdaws began to shout and float and soar / Already, and one was racing straight and high / Alone, shouting like a black warrior / Challenges and menaces to the wider sky.
The April mist, the chill, the calm...
When mist has been forgiven / And the sun has stolen out, / Peered, and resolved to shine at seven / On dabbled lengthening grasses, / Thick primroses and early leaves uneven, / When earth’s breath, warm and humid, far surpasses / The richest oven’s...
Thrush, blackbird, all that sing in May...
The sedgewarblers that hung so light / On willow twigs, sang longer than any lark, / Quick, shrill or grating, a song to match the heat / Of the strong sun, nor less the water’s cool / Gushing through narrows, swirling in the pool.
The cherry trees bend over and are shedding / On the old road where all that passed are dead...
What I saw / Was Adlestrop – only the name / And willows, willow-herb, and grass, / And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry, /No whit less still and lonely fair / Than the high cloudlets in the sky.
The green roads that end in the forest / Are strewn with white goose feathers this June...
... in the little thickets where a sleeper / For ever might lie lost, the nettle-creeper / And garden warbler sang unceasingly; / While over them shrill shrieked in his fierce glee / The swift with wings and tail as sharp and narrow / As if the bow had flown off with the arrow.
Naught moves but clouds, and in the glassy lake / Their doubles and the shadow of my boat.
... September hides herself / In bracken and blackberry, harebell and dwarf gorse.
The green elm with one great bough of gold / Lets leaves into the grass slip, one by one
November has begun / Yet never shone the sun as fair as now / While the sweet last-left damsons from the bough / With spangles of the morning’s storm drop down / Because the starling shakes it, whistling what / Once swallows sang.
... of all the months when earth is greener / Not one has clean skies that are cleaner. Clean and clear and sweet and cold...