THE HAWTHORN TREE IN YORK LANE
THE thought of it comes to my mind, As through the town I go, And all the houses slip behind To let my hawthorn blow.
The little lads troop through the grass To fill their hands with bloom; A single petal in a glass Makes Sussex in a room.
Kinless and strange on the road's edge, Such art its blossoms hold, The sprawling fence becomes a hedge, The new world is the old.
Who walks at dusk in green York Lane, A certain week of May, Hears music pour and pour again Down that enchanted way.
He knows the nightingale is out, Singing in the old wise; While white as morning all about, A hundred thorn-trees rise.