 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
803
AN UNKINDLY MAY
A shepherd stands by a gate in a white smock-frock:
He holds the gate ajar, intently counting his flock.
He holds the gate ajar, intently counting his flock.
The sour spring wind is blurting boisterous-wise,
And bears on it dirty clouds across the skies;
Plantation timbers creak like rusty cranes,
And pigeons and rooks, dishevelled by late rains,
Are like gaunt vultures, sodden and unkempt,
And song-birds do not end what they attempt:
The buds have tried to open, but quite failing
Have pinched themselves together in their quailing.
The sun frowns whitely in eye-trying flaps
Through passing cloud-holes, mimicking audible taps.
“Nature, you're not commendable to-day!”
I think. “Better to-morrow!” she seems to say.
And bears on it dirty clouds across the skies;
Plantation timbers creak like rusty cranes,
And pigeons and rooks, dishevelled by late rains,
Are like gaunt vultures, sodden and unkempt,
And song-birds do not end what they attempt:
The buds have tried to open, but quite failing
Have pinched themselves together in their quailing.
The sun frowns whitely in eye-trying flaps
Through passing cloud-holes, mimicking audible taps.
“Nature, you're not commendable to-day!”
I think. “Better to-morrow!” she seems to say.
That shepherd still stands in that white smock-frock,
Unnoting all things save the counting his flock.
Unnoting all things save the counting his flock.
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |