‘Tis time, I think, by Wenlock town
The golden broom should blow;
The hawthorn sprinkled up and down
Should charge the land with snow.
Spring will not wait the loiterer’s time
Who keeps so long away;
So others wear the broom and climb
The hedgerows heaped with may.
Oh tarnish late on Wenlock Edge,
Gold that I never see;
Lie long, high snowdrifts in the hedge
That will not shower on me.
- You Smile Upon Your Friend To-Day poem – A. E. Housman - January 7, 2022
- White in the Moon the Long Road Lies poem – A. E. Housman - January 7, 2022
- When the Lad for Longing Sigh poem – A. E. Housman - January 7, 2022