The lane runs deep in rabbit-riddled banks. How many hundred years of wheel and hoof And plodding feet that good cowhide makes proofHave grooved this rut, which lurks and winds and thanksThe burly stools of oak, the lissom ranks Of maple and spindlewood for eaves of roof So large they almost fend high noon aloof?Up in the hedge the wind may play his pranks;
Here the dead-calms of the after-sunset hour Hold every scent afloat, immobilised, Along the leafy-margin'd air-lagoon.Briarbush and honeysuckle and elderflower -- Each in his turn, you capture, analysed In such retort, the essential sweets of June.
