Rooks flew across the sky, bright February watched
Their steady course straight on, like an etcher's line scratched.
The dark brown or tawny earth breathed incense up,
I guessed there were hidden daisies, hoped the first buttercup.

The tunes of all the county, old-fashioned and my own
Wilful, wanton, careless, thronged in my mind, alone.
The sight of earth and rooks made passion rise in my blood.
Far gleamed Cotswold. Near ran Severn. A god's mood.

Save that I knew no high things would amaze day-fall
I had prayed heaven to kill me at that time most to fulfil
My dreams for ever. But looked on to a west bright at five,
Scarred by rooks in purpose; and the late trees in strife.