ARCADY IN ENGLAND

I met some children in a wood,

A happy and tumultuous rout

That came with many a wanton shout

And darted hither and about

( As in a stream the fickle trout ),

To ease their pagan lustihood.

And in their midst they led along

A goat with wreaths about his neck

That they had taken pains to deck

To join the bacchanalian throng.

And one of them was garlanded

With strands of wild convolvulus

About his ringlets riotous,

And carried rowan-berries red.

And one, the eldest of the band,

Whose life was seven summers glad,

Was all in flowered muslin clad,

And naked dancing feet she had

To lead the sylvan saraband.

With hazel skin and coral bead

A gipsy dryad of the mead

She seemed; she led the gay stampede

With fruited branches in her hand.

For all were bearing autumn fruit;

Some, apples on the loaded bough,

And pears that on the orchard’ s brow

With damask-plums are hanging now;

And much they had of woodland loot,

Of berries black and berries blue,

Of fircones, and of medlars too;

And one, who bore no plunder, blew

On reeds like an Arcadian flute.

They passed, and still I stood knee-deep

In thymy grass to watch their train.

They wound along the wooded lane

And crossed a streamlet with a leap,

And as I saw them once again

They passed a shepherd and his sheep.

And you might think, I made this song

For joy of song as I strode along

One day between the Kentish shaws,

Slashing at scarlet hips and haws.

But thinking so, you nothing know

Of children taken unawares,

Of tinkers’ tents among the gorse,

The poor lean goat, the hobbled horse,

And painted vans for country fairs.