The willows stand by Fringford brook,        From Fringford up to Hethe,    Sun on their cloudy silver heads,        And shadow underneath.     They ripple to the silent airs        That stir the lazy day,    Now whitened by their passing hands,        Now turned again to grey.     The slim marsh-thistle’s purple plume        Droops tasselled on the stem,    The golden hawkweeds pierce like flame        The grass that harbours them;     Long […]