Henry Head

“ Love called, and all the world a-trysting sped.
Beneath the whispering plane-trees passion burned,
Glowed like illuminated green in every breast,
Then piping happy songs we homeward turned,
Turned home to rest.
Over the housetop climbs a cowslip moon,
To join the expectant company of stars,
New-risen- And I little care how soon
My feet turn homeward by familiar ways.
No fellowship unbars
That narrow dwelling, where the measured days
Pass, and lever naught to show that they are fled.
I am grown weary, and to me alone
Love pipes a foolish tune, for thou art dead,
And youth is gone. ”