When these old woods were young
The thrushes’ ancestors
As sweetly sung
In the old years.
There was no garden here,
Apples nor mistletoe;
No children dear
Ran to and fro.
New then was this thatched cot,
But the keeper was old,
And he had not
Much lead or gold.
Most silent beech and yew:
As he went round about
The woods to view
Seldom he shot.
But now that he is gone
Out of most memories,
Still lingers on,
A stoat of his,
But one, shrivelled and green,
And with no scent at all,
And barely seen
On this shed wall.