Michael Field (Katherine Harris Bradley) (1846–1914)

THE WOODS are still that were so gay at primrose-springing,

Through the dry woods the brown field-fares are winging,

And I alone of love, of love am singing.

I sing of love to the haggard palmer-worm,

Of love ’mid the crumpled oak-leaves that once were firm,

Laughing, I sing of love at the summer’s term.

Of love, on a path where the snake’s cast skin is lying,

Blue feathers on the floor, and no cuckoo flying;

I sing to the echo of my own voice crying.