East Anglia                                    


On the road, one springtime day,

I saw along the leaf-hung rides

Hedges edged with flowering May,

Matched by the lilac in the woods.


Surely they looked like Christmas trees

Weighted with clustering summer snow:

Then white-laced parsley brought my eyes

Down to the verges strung below.


Pale lavender, the campion

Blew back and forth against the broom,

Whose yellow branches caught the sun

In miniature and let it stream.


A single poppy, here and there,

Foretold the scarlet lights of June

And took away a quick despair

At chestnut and at cherry gone.


The rides ahead loomed lofty, green:

Dappled with shade, a copper-beach

Glowed where oak and elm boughs twined

Beyond the rhododendron’s reach.


There, in that forest, time was still

Dark with the Romans tramping past

Moss-covered stones, which waited while

A soldier made his pack-strap fast.


All, in a way, was what it was;

AII as it would be long from now:

Flowers and trees continued, as

I marvelled at the hawthorn snow.