POETRY.
IVINGHOB.
ROUND Ivinghoe the lanes are red With swollen fruit of rose and may,
And autumn breaches in the woods Drop rainbow-gold the livelong day.
With silver tufts of traveller's joy The long hedgerows are garlanded, And orange poison-berries swing Dike little lanterns on a thread.
I met a maid near Ivinghoe, A dryad-girl, I think, was she; In her brown, narrow hands she held The berries of the spindle-tree.
Her hair was darker than the thorn, Her mouth was crimson as the may, Her eyes were like the changing leaves Upon the oaks beside the way.
She gave me neither word nor smile; She looked at me, and I at her : I turned, and stood to watch her pass Along the road to Wendover.
The autumn sky is broad and cold As lonely on my way I go,
And bleak winds cry disconsolate
Round Ivinghoe, round Ivinghoe.
IANIHE JER ROLD.
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