AT MIDDLE-FIELD GATE IN FEBRUARY

The bars are thick with drops that show

As they gather themselves from the fog

Like silver buttons ranged in a row,

And as evenly spaced as if measured, although

They fall at the feeblest jog.

They load the leafless hedge hard by,

And the blades of last year's grass,

While the fallow ploughland turned up nigh

In raw rolls, clammy and clogging lie -

Too clogging for feet to pass.

How dry it was on a far-back day

When straws hung the hedge and around,

When amid the sheaves in amorous play

In curtained bonnets and light array

Bloomed a bevy now underground!