Where the Picnic Was
Gerald Finzi, Thomas Hardy
Where we made the fire
In the summer time
Of branch and briar
On the hill to the sea
I slowly climb
Through winter mire
And scan and trace
The forsaken place
Quite readily
Now a cold wind blows
And the grass is gray
But the spot still shows
As a burnt circle - aye
And stick-ends, charred
Still strew the sward
Whereon I stand
Last relic of the band
Who came that day!
Yes, I am here
Just as last year
And the sea breathes brine
From its strange straight line
Up hither, the same
As when we four came
- But two have wandered far
From this grassy rise
Into urban roar
Where no picnics are
And one - has shut her eyes
For evermore
