—She by a sycamore,

Whose all-belated leaves yield up themselves

To the often takings of desirous winds,

Sits without consolation, marking not

The time save when her tears which still descend

Her barred fingers clasp'd upon her eyes,

Shape on the under side and size and drop.

Meanwhile a litter of the jagged leaves

Lies in her lap, which she anon sweeps off.

'This weary Martinmas, would it were summer'

I heard her say, poor poor afflicted soul,—

'Would it were summer-time.' Anon she sang

The country song of Willow. 'The poor soul—

(Like me)—sat sighing by a sycamore-tree.'

Perhaps it was for this she chose the place.

• Gerard Manley Hopkins