The woods we used to walk, my love,
Are woods no more,
But’ villas’ now with sounding names —
All name and door.
The pond, where, early on in March,
The yellow cup
Of water-lilies made us glad,
Is now filled up.
But ah! what if they fill or fell
Each pond, each tree,
What matters it to-day, my love,
To me — to thee?
The jerry-builder may consume,
A greedy moth,
God's mantle of the living green,
I feel no wrath;
Eat up the beauty of the world,
And gorge his fill
On mead and winding country lane,
And grassy hill.
I only laugh, for now of these
I have no care,
Now that to me the fair is foul,
And foul as fair.