Harold Begbic
The ragged robe of winter，stitch by stitch，And deftly turnedTo moving melody the wayside ditch，The palegreen pasture field behind the bars Is goldened o‘er with dandelion stars.
Quick pace with sinewy whiteshirted arms，And daily steepsIn sunny splendour all her spreading farms，The pasture field is flooded foamy white With daisy faces looking at the light.
Her golden wealth upon the forest floor，And all the daysLook backward at the days that went before，A pensive company，the asters，stand，Their blue eyes brightening the pasture land.
A sounding trumpet to his strenuous lips，And shapes the driftsTo curves of transient loveliness，he slips Upon the pasture’s ineffectual brownA swansoft vestment delicate as down.
