There they stand, on their ends, the fifty faggots That once were underwood of hazel and ash In Jenny Pinks's Copse. Now, by the hedge Close packed, they make a thicket fancy alone Can creep through with the mouse and wren. Next Spring A blackbird or a robin will nest there, Accustomed to them, thinking they will remain Whatever is for ever to a bird. This Spring it is too late; the swift has come, 'Twas a hot day for carrying them up: Better they will never warm me, though they must Light several Winters' fires. Before they are done The war will have ended, many other things Have ended, maybe, that I can no more Foresee or more control than robin and wren. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...RECOGNITION by SUSIE MONTGOMERY BEST THE LIFE-POWER by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON THE LOVE THAT PURIFIED by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE THE KNIGHT'S EPITAPH by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT SECOND BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 66 by THOMAS CAMPION |