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.
