The Lonely Farmer

Poor hill farmer astray in the grass;

There came a movement and he looked up, but

All that he saw was the wind pass.

There was a sound of voice on the air.

But where, where? It was only the glib stream talking

Softly to itself. And once when he was walking

Along a lane in spring he was deceived

By a shrill; whistle coming through the leaves;

Wait a minute, wait a minute--four swift notes;

He turned, and it was nothing, only a Thrush

In the thorn bushes easing its throat.

He swore at himself for paying heed,

The poor hill farmer, so often again

Stopping, staring, listening, in vain,

His ear betrayed by the heart’s need.