Poem for March 13, 2027

When shall I see the white-thorn leaves agen,

And yellowhammers gathering the dry bents

By the dyke side, on stilly moor or fen,

Feathered with love and nature's good intents?

Rude is the tent this architect invents,

Rural the place, with cart ruts by dyke side.

Dead grass, horse hair, and downy-headed bents

Tied to dead thistles--she doth well provide,

Close to a hill of ants where cowslips bloom

And shed oer meadows far their sweet perfume.

In early spring, when winds blow chilly cold,

The yellowhammer, trailing grass, will come

To fix a place and choose an early home,

With yellow breast and head of solid gold.