 | Mansoul or The Riddle of the World |  |
We sit at meat, on Spring-times Foster-Earth:
Our table, this lawns spread web, of new sweet grass.
All cheerful chat; and grows their most discourse,
As herdfolk use, of feed, of wool, of flocks:
Of ewes miswent, and lást years eanlings lost;
Wolves rent. They tell then o'er the Minsters stock;
Brake-lands, this foreyears tilth; last harvest-dearth.
Our table, this lawns spread web, of new sweet grass.
All cheerful chat; and grows their most discourse,
As herdfolk use, of feed, of wool, of flocks:
Of ewes miswent, and lást years eanlings lost;
Wolves rent. They tell then o'er the Minsters stock;
Brake-lands, this foreyears tilth; last harvest-dearth.
| Mansoul or The Riddle of the World | |