THE REGRET
The mallow blooms in late JulyAlong the dusty trackTo Romsey where the waters runAnd Norman stones confront the sun—Ah, Dear, that all our work were doneAnd we were getting back!The whinchat in the willow runsFrom silver stair to stair,Cocks his white eyebrow, tunes his throatAnd plans his little creaking noteTo please the leaves that past him float—Ah, Dear, that we were there!Now all the world is carrying hayAnd all the world is wise,And O to trudge it once againThere in the wake of a green wainThat over-tops the rustling laneBeneath familiar skies!
The mallow blooms in late JulyAlong the dusty trackTo Romsey where the waters runAnd Norman stones confront the sun—Ah, Dear, that all our work were doneAnd we were getting back!The whinchat in the willow runsFrom silver stair to stair,Cocks his white eyebrow, tunes his throatAnd plans his little creaking noteTo please the leaves that past him float—Ah, Dear, that we were there!Now all the world is carrying hayAnd all the world is wise,And O to trudge it once againThere in the wake of a green wainThat over-tops the rustling laneBeneath familiar skies!
The mallow blooms in late JulyAlong the dusty trackTo Romsey where the waters runAnd Norman stones confront the sun—Ah, Dear, that all our work were doneAnd we were getting back!
The whinchat in the willow runsFrom silver stair to stair,Cocks his white eyebrow, tunes his throatAnd plans his little creaking noteTo please the leaves that past him float—Ah, Dear, that we were there!
Now all the world is carrying hayAnd all the world is wise,And O to trudge it once againThere in the wake of a green wainThat over-tops the rustling laneBeneath familiar skies!