Second April

PASTORAL

     If it were only still!—
     With far away the shrill
     Crying of a cock;
     Or the shaken bell
     From a cow's throat
     Moving through the bushes;
     Or the soft shock
     Of wizened apples falling
     From an old tree
     In a forgotten orchard
     Upon the hilly rock!

     Oh, grey hill,
     Where the grazing herd
     Licks the purple blossom,
     Crops the spiky weed!
     Oh, stony pasture,
     Where the tall mullein
     Stands up so sturdy
     On its little seed!