THE thought of it comes to my mind, As through the town I go, And all the houses slip behind To let my hawthorn blow. The little lads troop through the grass To fill their hands with bloom; A single petal in a glass Makes Sussex in a room. Kinless and strange on the road's edge, Such art its blossoms hold, The sprawling fence becomes a hedge, The new world is the old. Who walks at dusk in green York Lane, A certain week of May, Hears music pour and pour again Down that enchanted way. He knows the nightingale is out, Singing in the old wise; While white as morning all about, A hundred thorn-trees rise. There in York Lane it blows and blows; And I am stripped of cares; One thought of it, and the town grows Brimful of Sussex airs. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...STORIES ARE MADE OF MISTAKES by JAMES GALVIN DESIRE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON FICTION by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SUNSET by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE QUARREL by KATHERINE MANSFIELD |