Fifty Faggots

THERE they stand, on their ends, the fifty faggots

That once were underwood of hazel and ash

In Jenny Pinks’s Copse. Now, by the hedge

Close packed, they make a thicket fancy alone

Can creep through with the mouse and wren. Next Spring

A blackbird or a robin will nest there,

Accustomed to them, thinking they will remain

Whatever is for ever to a bird.

This Spring it is too late; the swift has come,

’Twas a hot day for carrying them up:

Better they will never warm me, though they must

Light several Winters’ fires. Before they are done

The war will have ended, many other things

Have ended, maybe, that I can no more

Foresee or more control than robin and wren.