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.