She’ll say I saw her, cut her dead,—­
   I’ve lost my opportunity;
I take my hat off when she’s fled,
   And bow to the community! 
Or sometimes comes a hansom cab,
   Just as I near the crossing;
The “cabby” gives his reins a grab,
   The steed is wildly tossing. 
Me, haply fleeing from his horse,
   He greets with language somewhat coarse,
To which there’s no replying;
   A brewer’s dray comes down that way,
And simply sends me flying! 
I try the quiet streets, but there
I find an all-pervading air
Of death in life, which my despair
   In no degree diminishes. 
Then homewards wend my weary way,
And read dry law books as I may,
No solace will they yield. 
And so the sad day finishes
With one long sigh and yearning cry,
Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field!

IV.

   The fields are bright, and all bedight
      With buttercups and daisies;
   Oh, how I long to quit the throng
      Of human forms and faces: 
   The vain delights, the empty shows,
      The toil and care bewild’rin’,
   To feel once more the sweet repose
      Calm Nature gives her children. 
   At times the thrush shall sing, and hush
      The twitt’ring yellow-hammer;
   The blackbird fluster from the bush
      With panic-stricken clamour;
   The finch in thistles hide from sight,
      And snap the seeds and toss ’em;
   The blue-tit hop, with pert delight,
      About the crab-tree blossom;
   The homely robin shall draw near,
      And sing a song most tender;
   The black-cap whistle soft and clear,
      Swayed on a twig top slender;
   The weasel from the hedge-row creep,
      So crafty and so cruel,
   The rabbit from the tussock leap,
      And splash the frosty jewel. 
   I care not what the season be—­
      Spring, summer, autumn, winter—­
   In morning sweet, or noon-day heat,
      Or when the moonbeams glint, or
   When rosy beams and fiery gleams,
      And floods of golden yellow,
   Proclaim the sweetest hour of all—­
      The evening mild and mellow. 
   There, though the spring shall backward keep,
      And loud the March winds bluster,
   The white anemone shall peep
      Through loveliest leaves in cluster. 
   There primrose pale or violet blue
      Shall gleam between the grasses;
   And stitchwort white fling starry light,
      And blue bells blaze in masses. 
   As summer grows and spring-time goes,
      O’er all the hedge shall ramble
   The woodbine and the wilding rose,
      And blossoms of the bramble. 
   When autumn comes, the leafy ways
      To red and yellow turning,
   With hips and haws the hedge shall blaze,
      And scarlet briony burning. 
   When winter reigns and sheets of snow,