Weathers, Thomas Hardy

This is the weather the cuckoo likes, And so do I;
When showers beturnble the chestnut spikes, And nestlings fly:
And the little brown nightingale bills his best,
And they sit outside at “The Travellers’ Rest,
And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest,
And citizens dream of the south and west, And so do I.

This is the weather the shepherd shuns, And so do I;
When beeches drip in browns and duns, and thresh, and ply;
And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe,
And meadow rivulets overflow,
And drops on gate-bars bang in a row,
And rooks in families homeward go, And so do I.

 

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