Round-Pond

 Water ruffled and speckled by galloping wind 
Which puffs and spurts it into tiny pashing breaks 
Dashed with lemon-yellow afternoon sunlight.
 
The shining of the sun upon the water 
Is like a scattering of gold crocus-petals 
In a long wavering irregular flight.
 

The water is cold to the eye 
As the wind to the cheek.
 

In the budding chestnuts 
Whose sticky buds glimmer and are half-burst open 
The starlings make their clitter-clatter; 
And the blackbirds in the grass 
Are getting as fat as the pigeons.
 

Too-hoo, this is brave; 
Even the cold wind is seeking a new mistress.

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