Within these dusky woods

The blackthorn hides.

The violets in the rides

On a grey day

Among pale primrose-buds

Crouch, hidden away.

A loud jay curses all.

A gust goes by

Under the cloud-cold sky,

And as you walk,

In the fields the lambs call,

And the rooks talk.

How pale it is, the sky

That sheds its peace

On the violets like a fleece,

And yellow buds,

While the lambs feebly cry

Outside the woods!