In the wild sky where he is lain,
Nor the voices of the sweeter birds
Above the wailing of the rain.
Nor shall he know when loud March blows
Thro' slanting snows her fanfare shrill,
Blowing to flame the golden cup
Of many an upset daffodil.
But when the Dark Cow leaves the moor
And pastures poor with greedy weeds.
Perhaps he'll hear her low at morn
Lifting her horn in pleasant meads