At Middle-Field Gate in February

The bars are thick with drops that show
As they gather themselves from the fog
Like silver buttons set in a row,
And as equally spaced as if measured, although
They fall at the feeblest jog.

They load the leafless hedge hard by,
And the blades of last year's grass,
While the arable ridges turned up nigh
In brown lines, clammy and clogging lie--
Too clogging for feet to pass.

How dry it was on a far-back day
When straws hung the hedge and around,
When amid the sheaves in amorous play
In curtained bonnets and light array
Moved a bevy now underground!
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