I know a hidden field of ridge and furrow
Far from track or human tread,
Where grasses sigh and coneys burrow,
Where the cowslips dot the midden,
Where a skylark hovers, hidden,
Very high above your head.
I know an ancient road men call The Drover,
Free of fences, gate or wire;
A chalky way of turf and clover,
There the hedge is white at May time,
There a barn owl roosts in daytime
Snug within a ruined byre.
I know a Druid yew, a silent mourner,
Mourning what, I do not know.
It stands within a pasture corner,
Grim with age, grown gaunt and hollow,
Guarding still some secret sorrow;
Rot within and grief below.
I know a grassy mound, an orchard parcel
Tucked beside a hazel wood,
There the lambs play king o’ the castle,
There I’ve sat amid the cherries,
Swearing I’d be back for berries—
Knowing that I never should.