Tis time, I think by Wenlock town

        

         XXXIX

        

'Tis time, I think by Wenlock town

         The golden broom should blow;

The hawthorn sprinkled up and down

         Should charge the land with snow.

        

Spring will not wait the loiterer's time

         Who keeps so long away;

So others wear the broom and climb

         The hedgerows heaped with may.

        

Oh tarnish late on Wenlock Edge,

         Gold that I never see;

Lie long, high snowdrifts in the hedge

         That will not shower on me.