THE REGRET
The mallow blooms in late July
Along the dusty track
To Romsey where the waters run
And Norman stones confront the sun—
Ah, Dear, that all our work were done
And we were getting back!
The whinchat in the willow runs
From silver stair to stair,
Cocks his white eyebrow, tunes his throat
And plans his little creaking note
To please the leaves that past him float—
Ah, Dear, that we were there!