Poem by Thomas Hardy

The Yellow-Hammer

When, towards the summer’s close,
Lanes are dry,
And unclipt the hedgethorn rows,
There we fly!

While the harvest waggons pass
With their load,
Shedding corn upon the grass
By the road.

In a flock we follow them,
On and on,
Seize a wheat-ear by the stem,
And are gone...

With our funny little song,
Thus you may
Often see us flit along,
Day by day.

1. At the Word ‘Farewell’
2. The Three Tall Men
3. The Supplanter
4. Afternoon Service at Mellstock
5. Sitting on the Bridge

Print

1465 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version