Thomas Hardy — At Middle-Field Gate In February

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.