He shall not hear the bittern cry 
In the wild sky, where he is lain, 
Nor voices of the sweeter birds, 
Above the wailing of the rain. 

Nor shall he know when loud March blows 
Thro' slanting snows her fanfare shrill, 
Blowing to flame the golden cup 
Of many an upset daffodil. 

But when the Dark Cow leaves the moor 
And pastures poor with greedy weeds 
Perhaps he'll hear her low at morn 
Lifting her horn in pleasant meads.