At Middle-Field Gate In February Thomas Hardy

The bars are thick with drops that show
        As they gather themselves from the fog
Like silver buttons ranged in a row,
And as evenly spaced as if measured, although
        They fall at the feeblest jog.

They load the leafless hedge hard by,
        And the blades of last year's grass,
While the fallow ploughland turned up nigh
In raw rolls, clammy and clogging lie -
        Too clogging for feet to pass.

How dry it was on a far-back day
        When straws hung the hedge and around,
When amid the sheaves in amorous play
In curtained bonnets and light array
        Bloomed a bevy now underground!

BOCKHAMPTON LANE.