The Daffodil Fields — John Masefield

Between the barren pasture and the wood There is a patch of poultry-stricken grass, Where, in old time, Ryemeadows' Farmhouse stood, And human fate brought tragic things to pass. A spring comes bubbling up there, cold as glass, It bubbles down, crusting the leaves with lime, Babbling the self-same song that it has sung through time. Ducks gobble at the selvage of the brook, But still it slips away, the cold hill-spring, Past the Ryemeadows' lonely woodland nook Where many a stubble gray-goose preens her wing, On, by the woodland side. You hear it sing Past the lone copse where poachers set their wires, Past the green hill once grim with sacrificial fires.