At Bungendore

Now the white-buskined lamb
Deserts his ewe and bawls;
The rain spills from the dam;
A far-off bird-cry falls.
So harsh the bough, yet still
The peach-buds burst and shine.
The blossoms have their will;
I would that I had mine:
That carth no more might seem,
When spring shall clot the bough,
Irised by the gleam
Of tears, as it does now.