Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp. The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse. 1922.
The Woods Are StillMichael Field (Katherine Harris Bradley) (18461914)
T
Through the dry woods the brown field-fares are winging,
And I alone of love, of love am singing.
Of love ’mid the crumpled oak-leaves that once were firm,
Laughing, I sing of love at the summer’s term.
Blue feathers on the floor, and no cuckoo flying;
I sing to the echo of my own voice crying.