316. The Poplar Field

William Cowper (1731—1800)

  THE POPLARS are fell’d, farewell to the shade

  And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;

  The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,

  Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.

  Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a view

  Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew:

  And now in the grass behold they are laid,

  And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.

  The blackbird has fled to another retreat

  Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat;

  And the scene where his melody charm’d me before

  Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.

  My fugitive years are all hasting away,

  And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,

  With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head,

  Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

  ‘Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can,

  To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;

  Short-lived as we are, our enjoyments, I see,

  Have a still shorter date; and die sooner than we.