The bars are thick with drops that show
As they gather themselves from the fog
Like silver buttons ranged in a row,
And as evenly spaced as if measured, although 
They fall at the feeblest jog.

They load the leafless hedge hard by,
And the blades of last year's grass,
While the [fallow ploughland]1 turned up nigh
In raw rolls, clammy and clogging lie
Too clogging for feet to pass.

How dry it was on a farback day
When straws hung the hedge and around,
When amid the sheaves in amorous play
In curtained bonnets and light array
Bloomed a bevy now underground!