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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