Day of These Days

Such a morning it is when love
Leans through geranium windows
And calls with a cockerel’s tongue.

When red-haired girls scamper like roses
Over the rain-green grass;
And the sun drips honey.

When hedgerows grow venerable,
Berries dry black as blood,
And holes suck in their bees.

Such a morning it is when mice
Run whispering from the church,
Dragging dropped ears of harvest.

When the partridge draws back his spring
And shoots like a buzzing arrow
Over grained and mahogany fields.

When no table is bare,
And no beast dry,
And the tramp feeds on ribs of rabbit.

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Day of These Days