Catkin Tails

On Eggardon the frost,

lies bitter hard,

the sky foretells of snow,

but just below the crested

hill in sharp edged grass

the cowslips grow.

My love she writes me

that she leaves me

that she loves me not.

I trust the waxing daffodil

that falters not nor fails,

the coming cowslip and the

primrose, early elder greening

and the catkin tails.