Under the Woods

WHEN these old woods were young

The thrushes' ancestors

As sweetly sung

In the old years.

There was no garden here,

Apples nor mistletoe;

No children dear

Ran to and fro.

New then was this thatched cot,

But the keeper was old,

And he had not

Much lead or gold.

Most silent beech and yew:

As he went round about

The woods to view

Seldom he shot.

But now that he is gone

Out of most memories,

Still lingers on,

A stoat of his,

But one, shrivelled and green,

And with no scent at all,

And barely seen

On this shed wall.