Charlotte Mew,
The Farmer's Bride — Arracombe Wood
(1921)
“ Though what it was all about us'll never know. And there baint no mem'ry in the place Of th' old man's footmark, nor his face; Arracombe Wood do think more of a crow— 'Will be violets there in the Spring: in Summer time the spider's lace; And come the Fall, the whizzle and race Of the dry, dead leaves when the wind gies chase ”
