Classic Poem

In December the stubble nearly is
Most loved of things.
The rooks as in the dark trees are its friends
And make part of it . . .

Now when the hills shine far
And light and set off
That darkness, all my heart cries angrily
That music to fashion

For if not so, one must go
To the stubble every day
For comfort against such emptiness
As lost treasures make.

Cruelly scare the choughs from
Fallows and trees alike—
Though dim in love, or bright far
With the hills heroically they ally.