Fifty Faggots

There they stand, on their ends, the fifty fag

That once were underwood of hazel and

In Jenny Pink's copse.

Now, by the

Close packed, they make a thicket fancy

Can creep through with the mouse and wren.

Next springA blackbird or robin will nest there,

Accustomed to them, thinking they will

Whatever is for ever to a bird:

This Spring it is too late; the swift has come.'Twas a hot day for carrying them up:

Better they will never warm me, though they

Light several Winters' fires.

Before they are

The war will have ended, many other

Have ended, maybe, that I can no

Foresee or more control than robin and wren.