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And now in weed And grass you bid Time speed Away in dandelion seed,

Till your bright hair, For the down mingled there, His very greyness looks to wear.

Ah happy she Whose gentle hours be Told by such kind chronometry!

For now Time saith, Who smiling listeneth, “Lo, a child flouts me with a breath!”

And so, to assuage Sweetly a feignèd rage, He dims your hair with mimic age.

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’Tis the old wife at Rickling, she Has lost her ginger cat, ’twas he Who used to share the Master’s tea Beside the settle, Or on his corduroy-clad knee Out-purr the kettle;

Who followed when she pinned a-row Her flapping gowns of indigo And watched the apple-petals blow, With stealthy rapture Rehearsing in a mimic show Some mouse’s capture.

At dew-fall, with uncovered head, What tidings have the old wife led Hither where oak and hazel shed Their shadow deeper? —They say the ginger cat is dead, Shot by the Keeper.

Through coverts dim her searches lie (Howe’er so hardly sorrows try The burden of uncertainty To bear were harder) To where things dangle when they die— The Keeper’s larder.