Part 3 — THE POPLAR FIELD
Reading edition
The poplars are felled; 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 favorite 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 charmed 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; Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see, Have a being less durable even than he.
William Cowper [1731-1800]