Herrick
Oh, Herrick, still we love you, and our days
Keep to the weather of the daffodil,
Because, good Mayer, your few notes do still
Break with their silver down our sullen ways.
Last of your line that knew clearly to sing,
You kept your heart up to the bloomy time,
Spending your Devon in unvexed rhyme,
And with no mood except that one of Spring.
Oh, still we come, — as to some fair estate,
Which should be theirs, yet somehow is not so,
Come poor and wistful heirs from overseas,
To long and look without the fast-barred gate —
And track you by your laughter where you go
At thick of morn under the rectory trees!
Keep to the weather of the daffodil,
Because, good Mayer, your few notes do still
Break with their silver down our sullen ways.
Last of your line that knew clearly to sing,
You kept your heart up to the bloomy time,
Spending your Devon in unvexed rhyme,
And with no mood except that one of Spring.
Oh, still we come, — as to some fair estate,
Which should be theirs, yet somehow is not so,
Come poor and wistful heirs from overseas,
To long and look without the fast-barred gate —
And track you by your laughter where you go
At thick of morn under the rectory trees!
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