Pretty Meadow

In the field the farm-folk call,
                          One and all,
Pretty Meadow &mdash if you look
                          Domesday Book
Very likely gives its name
                          Just the same —
Once a great house used to stand,
                          Bravely planned,
Brick and stone, accounted sure
                          To endure,
Clustered chimneys — windows too
                          Not a few
Flashing back the sunset light
                          Night by night.

So it stood till &mdash who may know
                          By what foe?
War that wasted many a shire,
                          Tempest, fire,
Or by time and slow decay
                          Worn away,
Beam from beam, and stone from stone,
                          Down were thrown.
Fretted cornice, pillared hall,
                          Vanished all —
And of all the countless panes
                          None remains
Where the sunset, night by night,
                          Used to light
All his mimic fires aglow
                          Row on row.

Only on some mounded heaps
                          Cinquefoil creeps,
By whose line you still may pace
                          Out the place
Where a great house, bravely planned,
                          Used to stand . . .
And I doubt if ever there
                          Sight more fair
Pretty meadow had to show
                          Long ago
Than the lapwing's clutch of young,
                          Diamond hung
On their backs of dappled down,
                          Golden brown,
Hurrying through the dewy grass
                          As you pass —
So I saw them, but to-day,
                          Here in May!